The Sons of Minas Tirith
by Espionage
Summary: Boromir and Faramir growing up in Minas Tirith. Of course, they're the good, ordinary, obedient sons of Denethor....Yeah Right! Chapter 24 Author's final notes, and a surprise...
1. Wanderings and Return

The usual: I don't own the characters, I don't make money off of them, ect. Actually, a couple very minor characters are made up, but that's about it.  
  
One more thing: Right now, Boromir is supposed to be 8, and Faramir is only 4. Any misunderstanding is my fault, I wasn't really clear enough. Don't worry though, they will grow throughout the story. Thanks for reading!  
  
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The eight year old boy carefully crawled through the grasses near Minas Tirith. His small wooden sword was in his hand, and his bright gray eyes were eagerly surveying the landscape. To his right, he could hear the slow gurgling of the great river, the Anduin, as it crept slowly on its course towards the sea. He was not interested in the water, however, for his eyes were focused on a tall figure ahead of him, a soldier who was currently watching over the lands around the city. The boy needed to get just a few feet closer, a few short feet....  
  
"Bor..o..mir!!!" A high pitched, stumbling shout caused the boy to jump. He groaned as he heard the shuffling footsteps of his younger brother approach, then stop beside him. "You got to go back home before Daddy finds you!"  
  
Boromir dragged himself to his feet, and attempted unsuccessfully to brush some of the dust from his clothes. "Faramir, did you HAVE to shout?" he started. "I was thiiiiissss close to catching the soldier off his guard." He held his thumb and forefinger close together. "And now look, you had to go and ruin it." He was disgusted with the spoiling of his plans.  
  
Faramir failed to notice the look on his brother's face. Instead, he waved eagerly at the soldier, who was now watching both boys, turned around, and toddled away. "Just like a baby, a little four year old baby," thought Boromir. He knew however, that he was doomed to follow the other's lead, or risk getting caught outside the city walls and face the wrath of an extremely angry father. Sighing, he picked up the wooden sword he had dropped, and trotted after his brother.  
  
********  
  
The distance back to the city was not great, for Boromir did not dare travel far from its walls, lest he be unable to make it back unnoticed. Soon the two brothers were within sight of the first gate. Faramir thought nothing of simply walking casually past, and would have done so if the other had not grabbed him and dragged him to the ground.  
  
"Are you crazy?" snapped Boromir. "We have to sneak in when the eyes of the guards are elsewhere, unless of course, you want to get caught." He slowly began to move through the grass, motioning for Faramir to follow. Faramir was about to say something, but stopped when he saw the look on his older brother's face. Boromir was scanning the gate, checking for any sign of the guards. Normally, there were people on watch at all times; however, today had been rather unusual. There was something akin to a festival being held in the city, not a true festival of course, for there were currently many problems with Mordor, and no reason for great celebration. However, the Steward Denethor had noticed the sadness of the citizens of late, and, as there had been less fighting this month than previous ones, he arranged for a modest holiday to improve city mood. Fewer guards than usual were on watch (though scouts were still about), and occasionally, the guards would sneak a few moments away from their post.  
  
Boromir knew that, even if he saw a guard at the gate now, he could count on him leaving briefly at some point. However, at that moment, he did not need to worry, for no one appeared to be keeping watch.  
  
"Look," he whispered. "The post is clear. We must take this opportunity and go.....now!" He leaped to his feet and bolted towards the gate as fast as his young legs could carry him. Faramir got up after him and followed, though his shorter steps caused him to fall back a bit. Within a minute's time, they were back inside the great white walls of the city. The guard had not yet returned.  
  
Boromir had a boyish grin on his face. "See, now that's how you get back into Minas Tirith!" he exclaimed. "Now, hurry up! We have to get back to the festival before father discovers where we've been. And, by Valar, if you see anyone you know, don't say anything! Then it's sure to get back to father." Faramir nodded emphatically. His eyes were shining with admiration of his older brother, and as Boromir walked away, he stumbled after him.  
  
Boromir was very familiar with this part of the city. He often snuck through the main gate in an attempt to escape the confines of the walls surrounding his home. Now he led his brother through the streets, dodging people and carts, towards the second gate. There were many gates to go before they reached the highest level, where the Steward resided, and the distance was long, for the gates did not neatly line up together. It took a long time before they reached the final gate, but Boromir was not worried, for he saw that the festival had not ended, and knew his father would still be occupied.  
  
A white paved court greeted the two boys as they strode past the last gate. There were many people about, eating and chatting around a beautiful white fountain. Nearby was a tree, though it appeared completely devoid of life, and seemed out of place in the white, living splendor of the city. Boromir decided that his best course of action was simply to blend in with the crowd, and pretend that he had not gone anywhere. He casually slipped in amongst the people, forgetting about the dust that lay upon his body. Faramir copied him, though being younger, did not fully understand his brother and thus was not quite as discrete. Nobody appeared to notice anything unusual.  
  
********  
  
While Boromir and Faramir attempted to blend in with the crowds and enjoy the small celebration, Denethor was touring the city, along with a few others. He carefully examined the expressions on the faces of the citizens; the festivities, after all, were meant to improve morale. Denethor sighed slightly. Times were becoming difficult for his people, the people of Gondor. Evil seemed to daily creep upon their borders, coming ever closer. For awhile, they had successfully been repelling Orc attacks on the outskirts of the country, but the death of many young men weighed heavily on the hearts of the Steward. "Alas," he thought to himself, "times are becoming darker as the days pass. Right now, Gondor is still strong, but slowly, slowly these attacks will wear us down, and one day we may be too weak to repel them." He sighed again, more openly this time, and one of the others with him glanced at him questioningly.  
  
"Is something wrong, my lord?" asked the man, called Retegor.  
  
"No, nothing now, but alas! I fear for Gondor."  
  
Retegor was about to speak again, but suddenly another man ran up. "My lord, my lord!" the man cried, panting. "Two boy...were seen...entering the city gates, unescorted. Apparently they were sneaking back after being outside, alone in the Pelennor! I thought you ought to know."  
  
An angry look appeared on the Steward's face. He had a fair idea as to what children would be foolish enough to venture outside the city walls. Silently he cursed his eldest, and quickly turned towards on the street, striding in the direction of the great hall at the city's peak. Retegor faithfully followed him.  
  
********  
  
Boromir felt slightly relieved when, a half hour after his arrival, nobody made any comments to him regarding an excursion outside the city. He relaxed, and decided all was well. Faramir, meanwhile, seemed to be having the time of his life. He was thrilled to be tagging along behind his brother, almost like a second shadow, and the excitement of their short journey outside the city shone in his face. All thoughts of being caught seemed forgotten.  
  
Suddenly, a tremendous roar of fury echoed through the courtyard.  
  
"BOROMIR!!!"  
  
Denethor had returned. 


	2. Explorer's Bane

Note: Boromir has a wooden sword at this point, due to his age. It's obviously not the sword he carries as an adult. _________________________________________________  
  
  
  
Boromir and Faramir stood frozen in place, the former with a look of complete guilt pasted across his face, as the furious Steward stormed over. Denethor was beside himself. He snatched Boromir's arm in one hand, Faramir's in the other and practically dragged them into the great hall. Here, he allowed his younger son to free himself, though he kept his iron grip on Boromir.  
  
"Faramir," he began, making little effort to mask the fury in his voice, "you are to stay in here until I return. Do NOT go anywhere but this hall, understand?" Faramir nodded mutely, an expression akin to sheer terror on his face. He then backed away quickly from his father, and stumbled over to a corner, where he hid his face in his small hands.  
  
Denethor watched Faramir to reassure himself that his son wouldn't leave. Then, he proceeded to drag Boromir into a small room adjacent the main hall. Boromir was very familiar with the room; he often used it as a hiding spot in his games with his younger brother. Under the circumstances, he wished he could once again utilize it as the perfect hiding place, this time from his father.  
  
The Steward slammed the wooden door behind him upon entering the room. Only then did he loosen his grip on Boromir's arm. Still, he did not allow the boy to escape his grasp entirely; instead choosing to spin him around so he could speak to his son face to face.  
  
"Boromir," he started, in a voice that began low and dangerous, but soon rose. "What WERE you thinking! Sneaking out of the city simply to wander around the plains? And encouraging your brother to follow? Explain yourself, NOW!" His hands were shaking in his rage.  
  
For a moment, Boromir could not find a sufficient reply for that furious figure looming over him. Words seemed to be beyond him, forming in his head, yet remaining trapped somewhere deep in his throat. His small wooden sword, which he had managed to keep hold of until now, suddenly clattered noisily to the stone floor.  
  
Finally, he found himself capable of speech. "I....I....well...I," he stammered, unable to meet his father's gaze as he spoke. He swallowed, took a ragged breath, and tried again. "Well....well...I....just...I don't like being stuck in the city...my whole life!" he finally blurted out.  
  
Denethor's rage got the better of him. "So," he spat, "you thought it would be all right to simply leave the city, unescorted, telling no one, and casually stroll around wherever you pleased!"  
  
"But father! I...I...It wasn't really like that! I never went that far from the walls, and I didn't take Faramir with me; he simply tagged along, and I couldn't get rid of him." He brought his gaze upward, and his gray eyes were filled with fear and frustration.  
  
The Steward thought Boromir's explanation was completely inadequate; after all, he had placed himself and his brother in a potentially perilous situation, while breaking a tremendous number of the rules he had laid down long ago for the boys' protection. "I have this to say, Boromir. I am extraordinarily disappointed in your behavior today. Your actions were not appropriate for the lowliest of lowly Men, much less a future Steward of Gondor! For this, you are forbidden from passing the last gate until the passing of a month!"  
  
The boy was shocked. "But father, the last gate? You...you mean the one right on the borders of the courtyard outside?"  
  
"The very one."  
  
"For a whole month?"  
  
"Yes Boromir, one month."  
  
"But...but...but..but that's not fair!!!" Boromir, emancipated from his father's grip, turned and bolted out the door, attempting to mask the few tears that formed in his eyes.  
  
********  
  
Denethor managed to banish some of his former fury before calling his younger son to the small room to join him. Faramir timidly approached his father, his terror clearly written across his fair face. He stared straight at the floor as Denethor spoke, shivering slightly when he heard the anger still left in the Steward's voice.  
  
"Faramir."  
  
Faramir heard his name spoken, but he kept his gaze upon his feet. Vaguely he registered in his young mind that Boromir had left his prized wooden sword on the floor. He might want it back  
  
"Faramir, look at me."  
  
The command from his father caused the boy to shake more perceptibly. He had no desire to view the incensed face of the Steward.  
  
In his mind, Denethor sighed. He found it difficult to be angry at Faramir. The boy was so young, after all, and though even he knew it was wrong to venture outside the city walls, the desire to tag along with his older brother was often very difficult to overcome. More of the Steward's anger left, and he slowly placed his hand under the boy's chin, raising his face so he could look into his eyes.  
  
"Faramir, you know it is against the rules to go past the main gate."  
  
Faramir nodded vigorously, but remained silent. Denethor sighed again. He remembered Boromir at the age of four; the boy used to chatter non-stop, asking questions, demanding answers. Faramir, however, spoke hardly a word in front of the Steward. Denethor simply couldn't understand it; he knew the boy was intelligent, for in his soft gray eyes flickered fires of understanding, yet he seemed almost mute towards all but Boromir. The Steward waited for a second, as if holding on to a shred of hope that his younger son might say something, yet he soon gave up and continued.  
  
"You cannot go walking around outside the city walls. It's dangerous. No matter what Boromir does, you need to remember that, Faramir." Denethor paused for a moment, then continued. "If you see your brother leaving the main gate, you need to tell someone, not follow him, understand?"  
  
The small boy nodded his head slowly. His eyes were still filled with fear, but he seemed to relax slightly, and did not visibly shake anymore.  
  
Denethor pondered a punishment for the boy for a moment, but believed simply by looking at his son's face that Faramir's fright would keep him from performing any foolish escape stunts, at least in the near future. It also occurred to him that, with Boromir confined to the area around the courtyard, his younger brother would probably remain close nearby, and thus stay out of harm's way. The Steward straightened himself, and motioned towards the door.  
  
"You may go now. Take your brother's sword with you."  
  
Faramir snatched the small wooden sword from the hard floor, pushed open the door as quickly as possible for one his age, and ran away as quickly as his short legs would carry him.  
  
********  
  
Boromir climbed step after step, ascending ever higher above the city of Minas Tirith. The punishment of his father still burned in his memory, and he attempted in vain to escape the frustration that flowed through his veins. He could not leave the last gate; for if he did, he would receive a penalty far worse than that which now lay upon him. Yet, Boromir felt a great desire to escape, to be free from the confines of the city walls where he had spent all but a few hours of his existence. Thus, his destination lay at the very peak of the most majestic place within his designated boundary; the great Tower of Ecthelion.  
  
At very last, he reached the top of the glittering pinnacle. The silver and white stone shone around him, and the tranquillity at the tower's peak seemed comforting to the boy. He lay down for a moment, catching his breath after the somewhat strenuous climb, and wiped his arm across his face. His eyes were slightly red, though no traces of tears could be found anymore.  
  
Eventually, Boromir stood up, and slowly walked towards the tower's edge. Here, he glanced down upon the white city of Minas Tirith, and the lands of Gondor beyond.  
  
The boy was in complete awe. There was a spectacular view from the tower. Here, one felt as though they were a part of the sky, close to the sun's comforting warmth. Boromir's unhappiness slowly drained away. His eyes were shining as he gazed down upon the land. For a brief moment, he imagined what he must look like; a lone figure, on top of a glittering tower of light, like a King gazing down upon his glorious country.  
  
For nearly an hour, Boromir simply stood atop the tower, taking in the sights below, and allowing all worries to leave his mind. Here, he did not have to think about his brother Faramir, the wrath of his father Denethor, the misery of his punishment, the confines of the city. Here at last, for a brief while, he felt completely at ease.  
  
Only when the sun began to set did Boromir slowly venture back down the tower steps, back to the world, to face the reality that awaited him. 


	3. The Black Sphere

Boromir's month of confinement crept by slowly, like a long, freezing winter that refuses to give way to spring. He was forced to look hard for ways to entertain himself, for even in the huge Steward's tower home at the top of Minas Tirith, there were many places off-limits to the boy. Boromir spent his days practicing sword fighting with his small sword, returned to him by Faramir, or climbing to the top of the great white tower, gazing down upon the land.  
  
Denethor did not allow him endless free time, however. Both Boromir and Faramir were instructed several times a week by various teachers. The younger boy was simply learning the very basics of speaking and reading, while the elder studied several subjects, including language.  
  
One warm day, Boromir was sitting restlessly inside a rather small stone room of the palace, listening to the endless droning of his private language instructor. The day's subject was Elvish. Although the boy did not actually learn to speak Elvish, he did learn that there were different types of Elvish, and they influenced some of the languages of Men. Or at least, that's what he was supposed to be learning.  
  
In truth, Boromir found all his classes extremely boring. He was not interested in the Elves, for he had never seen any, and therefore did not care about their languages. During his times of instruction, he usually began daydreaming about more practical things, like weaponry. His teacher never seemed to pay much attention to the boy anyway, for he was lost in his own world as he droned on and on about the day's topic.  
  
On this particular day, Boromir listened to approximately 30 seconds of the lecture before drifting off. "It's the perfect day for sword fighting, or exploring," he thought, looking briefly out a small window, "and I am stuck in here listening to who knows what!" He spent some time imagining what he would do after the day's lessons, how he would take his wooden sword and practice fighting some imaginary foes. Eventually, he realized that his teacher was not paying him the least bit of attention. Boromir thought about this for a moment, then a slow grin spread on his face.  
  
"I wonder if I could escape from this stupid lecture," he wondered. "I only have to make it to that door over there....It's not too far." Boromir sat still a minute longer; then made up his mind. He very quietly sank down to the stone floor, careful not to alert his instructor. Next, he slowly creeped across the floor, using the same technique he had utilized while out on the plain. The instructor did not notice the boy. Perhaps he really was engrossed in his own words, or perhaps Boromir's age and small stature allowed him to move too quietly to detect. Eventually, Boromir reached the door of the room. He reached up slightly and pushed, opening the door a few inches at a time. Luckily, it did not make a sound, for it was one of the more recently oiled doors of the tower. Boromir crawled outside, into the great hall; then closed the door carefully behind him.  
  
Pleased with himself, the boy got to his feet, and flattened himself against the wall. There was no one around. "I might as well explore a little," he whispered to himself. "Maybe I can get my sword." He then ran quickly across the length of the hall, trying to remember where he had left his small sword.  
  
  
********  
  
While Boromir was being instructed, Faramir simply wandered around the tower, bored. He didn't have any classes at the time, and was having a little trouble entertaining himself. The boy wished Boromir would come, but he knew that he would not see his brother for awhile. Therefore, Faramir meandered from room to room by himself.   
  
There weren't many people around, for Denethor was in a different part of the city, and most of the other inhabitants of the town were elsewhere. No one noticed as the small boy suddenly stopped in front of a staircase, and looked upward.  
  
Faramir knew the staircase was off-limits to him, for many times either he or Boromir had been ordered to remove themselves from its vicinity. However, the small boy was immensely curious about it. In the way of a child his age, he wanted to know exactly what was at the top. With a guilty look across his face, he spun around to make sure no one was watching. An empty hall stared back. Then, he turned back to the stairs, and, determined to find out what was at the top, he slowly crawled upwards, stumbling a few times.  
  
The stairs were rather tall, but Faramir did not stop as he made his way up. His small hands scrambled for a grip at the top of each stair, and he pushed himself on with his feet.  
  
Eventually, the boy reached the end. There was a huge, heavy door in front of him, decorated with some fancy symbols. Any ordinary person would have stopped upon seeing the door, not only because of its great size, but also due to the massive keyhole carefully carved out of metal. This was apparently a place off-limits to most, for only something of great importance would be hidden in such a way.  
  
Faramir was not an ordinary person, however; he was a young child, and curiosity drove him ever onwards. He ignored the tremendous size of the door, it's decorations, even the keyhole upon it. Instead, he simply reached forward with one small hand, and ran it along the door's edge. He happened to notice something that another person might have missed.  
  
The door was slightly agar. In fact, by leaning even his tiny body against the door, Faramir managed to move it a few inches. Then a few inches more. Then, a few inches more again. It took a little while, but eventually a small gap appeared between the edge of the door and the wall. To most, it may not have appeared significant, but it was just wide enough for Faramir to squeeze through. He slowly squirmed his way into the chamber behind the door.  
  
  
  
********  
  
Boromir trotted from room to room in the tower. He was angry with his forgetfulness. "Where did I put my sword?" he wondered. "I thought it was in my room..."   
  
Suddenly, he stopped in mid-stride. "I bet it's in the eating area. I was in a big hurry this morning, and I think I left it." He raced over to the former breakfast area, panting. Boromir panicked slightly when he did not see his sword immediately, but soon he found it under a long bench. The boy carefully picked it up, and wiped off some of the dirt that had gathered upon its edge. Then he grabbed it with both hands, and swung it about a little, imagining himself defeating some evil foes.  
  
"It's a good thing I found this," he began, muttering to himself. "Father would have been furious to see me leaving my weapons around like that." He spun around and swung his sword at the bench. "Take that, evil Orc!" he exclaimed, pretending to slay his enemy. "And that! And that!"   
  
After a few such minutes, the boy stopped. "Hahaha!" he laughed, a little louder. "Boromir son of Denethor has slain you all! But such a noble warrior needs a better sword than this." His voice had a slight whine to it. "I am old enough for a real sword now! I hope father gets me one soon."  
  
Boromir was so engrossed in his thoughts about battle and a better sword, that at first he failed to notice the yelling that wafted into the hall from the staircase in the corner. Soon however, his ears picked up a familiar voice, crying for help. He whirled around at the sound, and, sword in hand, he scrambled towards it.  
  
  
********  
  
After squeezing through the doorway, Faramir looked around in complete awe. He found himself in a small, poorly lit chamber filled with books and scrolls. A few intricately done paintings hung upon the walls, and in one corner, a statue of a Man looked proudly upon the room.  
  
Faramir got to his feet, and walked about. The books and scrolls were of little interest to him, for he could only distinguish a few letters in their long pages, and there were no pictures to entertain him.  
  
The statue was slightly more interesting, and the boy stared at it for a few moments, slightly intimidated by the power in the stone Man's face. He shivered a little, and closed his eyes, opening them only when he had his back to the strange statue.  
  
Suddenly, Faramir spotted something unusual on a short shelf against the wall. He toddled over, curious. The boy soon realized that he stood just tall enough to peer over the shelf. Upon it, he found some strange, apparently round object covered in a thick, black cloth. The boy was reminded of a gift, wrapped up for someone special, and had the sudden desire to view the full contents inside. He reached towards the cloth, grabbed it, and, carefully pulled it off with his small hand.  
  
A black stone sphere had been hidden underneath. It appeared to be completely devoid of anything interesting, and a wave of disappointment washed across the boy. "Boring, boring, boring!" he thought to himself. "Why did I look anyways?"  
  
Another thought hit Faramir. "Maybe it's magic," he said outloud. "I better watch, just to see." He leaned forward, staring into the black sphere, attempting to see something in its dark depths. The boy was not disappointed this time. A bright, orange spot began to make itself appear within the sphere's center. Faramir strained his eyes to try and identify the spot, as it slowly grew bigger. Then, he screamed in terror as it grew, and he found himself unable to look away.  
  
An evil, gleaming eye watched the boy intently.  
  
  
********  
  
  
Boromir soon realized that the terrified screams he heard were those of his younger brother, Faramir. They seemed to be coming from the top of the forbidden staircase. He bolted over, then paused, glancing about to see if anyone else was near. The door to his instructor's room was still closed, and no one else seemed to be around. "No one will notice," he said outloud, trying to forget the threats he'd heard from Denethor should he choose to wander up the stairs. Another scream came to his ears, somewhat fainter this time.   
  
His brother must be in trouble! Shaking his head at himself for even pausing to think, he raced up the stairs. Then, he spent half a second readying his short wooden sword, and rammed into the metal door in front of him. It screeched open.  
  
Faramir was standing near a shelf against the wall, his eyes wide and tears running down his cheeks. Boromir ran towards him, waving his sword around in a somewhat clumsy fashion, as though he would attempt to fend off any evil attackers within the chamber. However, he soon realized that no one else was around. Boromir reached his brother's side. In his hurry, he failed to notice the strange dark sphere. The glowing eye within its depths suddenly vanished, and it went completely black.  
  
The younger boy stumbled backwards with a gasp, and would have fallen had not his brother grabbed him from behind. Faramir cried out again in fear.  
  
"Calm down, it's me!" ordered Boromir. Then, his voice softened. "What's wrong?" he asked, fairly concerned, as he noticed the terror in his brother's eyes. "You look like you just saw a ghost!"  
  
Faramir said nothing. Instead, he simply shivered, and pulled himself close to Boromir, hugging him tightly. Boromir sighed a little, but returned the hug.  
  
"It's all right, Faramir. You're safe now." He paused for a second, then spoke again. "Did you hurt yourself?" Faramir shook his head quickly back and forth.  
  
"Did you see something scary?" Faramir nodded, though he refused to say a word. The gleaming orange eye was still fresh in his memory. Boromir attempted to ask him more questions, but they were ignored. Finally, he gave up.  
  
"Well," said Boromir, "don't worry; you're all right now. Come on let's get out of here before Father catches us. Anyways, I have to get back to class. It's almost over, and I don't want that stupid language teacher to see that I'm gone." He began to pull away from his brother, but Faramir latched onto his hand.  
  
Boromir looked at him again, but didn't say anything else. Instead, he quickly lead the younger boy away from the chamber, and shut the metal door as they left. 


	4. Of Swords and Wells

First off, I want to say thanks for all the reviews. They totally encourage me to update as often as possible. Yes, I do plan on continuing this story for awhile.  
  
Also, I originally decided to write the story for 3 main reasons:  
  
1. I read the Fellowship of the Ring a little while ago, and gained a lot of respect for Boromir. He is key in saving members of the fellowship several times, and his intentions are generally noble. Boromir also began to remind me of Brutus from "Julius Caesar".  
  
2. (And Little Loki Puk totally got this too) Even though Boromir and Faramir are never seen together in the books, their relationship is key in the story. I wanted to show this.  
  
3. Finally, I stumbled upon this site one day, and decided to write a story.  
  
  
Notes: Technically, Boromir/Faramir's mother is still alive at this point, but since she is not of importance to LOTR, I have left her out. Also, I am pretty sure no age is specified for Beregond, so I am making him around the same age as Boromir.  
  
_____________________________________________________________________________  
  
  
  
For many months, things passed rather uneventfully for Boromir and Faramir. The elder's period of confinement soon came and went, and both boys spent their days playing, studying, and, in Boromir's case, practicing sword fighting. Faramir occasionally woke up in the dead of night, yelling and mumbling words about an eye, but all attributed his dreams to the night terrors that seemed to strike children of his age.  
  
Eventually, Boromir reached the age of ten. Though birthdays, even those of the Steward's sons, were usually of little importance to most residents of Gondor (they had enough things to think about already), Denethor arrived at his elder son's room early in the morning. With a slight shake, he roused Boromir, who yawned and rubbed his eyes. Faramir, who slept in a bed nearby, did not even stir.  
  
"What are you doing up so early, father?" asked Boromir, as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. He listened for a moment to the world outside his window, and then added, "We're not under attack, are we?"  
  
His father chuckled. "No, my son," answered Denethor. "But," he gestured towards the door, "if you follow me, I have something that may be of interest to you." He turned and slowly walked out of the room, then waited for the boy to join him.  
  
Boromir followed his father, slightly puzzled. However, his confusion left him suddenly as he entered the hall, and his gray eyes lit up when he saw something in Denethor's hands. It was a small metal sword, with a gleaming hilt. A "real" sword, as Boromir would call it, not the little wooden thing he was forced to carry around.  
  
Denethor chuckled again as he saw the eager look on his son's face. "Yes Boromir," he began, "this is for you. As of late, you have been very dedicated to your swordsmanship practice, and I thought it was about time you got an upgraded weapon. The blade is somewhat dull, mind you, but it is still an excellent sword for someone of your age, and the future Steward!" He carefully held the sword towards his son, hilt first, and Boromir slowly grasped it. Though the boy tried to hide his pride, it spilled across his face, and soon he was grinning widely.  
  
It then occurred to Boromir that he'd completely abandoned a few rules of courtesy. "Thank you father!" he cried, smiling. "I will take good care of this new weapon, and prove to you that I am worthy enough to own it!" He began to bow slightly, but his father stopped him.  
  
"I know you will make me proud, my son," commented Denethor. "And now, on this day I give you leave to wander the city as you please. It's time for the son of the Steward to explore his realm, but DO NOT go beyond the walls." This last order was a little stern, but Boromir was so pleased with his new sword that he had no desire to disobey his father and have it taken away.  
  
"I won't, father," promised Boromir. With both words and eyes he spoke the truth, and satisfied, Denethor left him. The boy was left standing outside his room, admiring the sword he had longed to own for many months.  
  
  
********  
  
Several hours later, after the morning meal, Boromir and Faramir wandered happily around the city. Boromir used every opportunity to wave his sword and strike out at imaginary foes, though he took care not to do anything foolish. It would be horrible to slice some innocent person on his first day of owning a real weapon, and he had no desire for an angry Denethor to relieve him of his gift.   
  
At one point during their wanderings, Boromir and Faramir were spotted by another boy. "Aye! Boromir!" shouted the boy, called Beregond, as he ran towards them. They stopped and turned around as he raced up; then the newcomer suddenly saw the object in the elder brother's hand. "Wow!" exclaimed Beregond, his eyes shining in amazement, "when did you become the owner of such a fine sword?" He absentmindedly removed his grasp from the small wooden one sheathed in his belt.  
  
"Father gave it to me, just this morning," answered Boromir proudly. "Care to have a short duel?" Beregond sighed slightly in envy, then slowly pulled out his wooden weapon.  
  
"All right," replied Beregond. "But I don't know if my sword can stand up to yours."  
  
The two boys had a mock battle, as Faramir looked on. The match was fairly uneven, for it was true that the wooden weapon could do little against one of metal. Presently, both boys decided to call it a draw, though Boromir carried a look of pride and superiority on his face for a while afterwards. He was thrilled that he now possessed such a symbol of power! The other boys of his age would be fiercely jealous.  
  
Boromir and Beregond wandered around Minas Tirith together, as Faramir tagged along behind. They took the time to show off Boromir's new sword to any young boy who would stand still long enough to look. Boromir was pleased with the various reactions. Some would stop and gape in awe; others asked for a chance to try out the weapon, simply for a moment. The Steward's son obliged, but he stood nearby whenever the sword passed out of his grasp, and the others were careful not to mar the blade in any way.  
  
Beregond was happy to be in the company of the one boy who owned such a fine weapon, yet he felt a slight twinge of jealousy every time he felt his own wooden blade, still attached to his belt. By the time Boromir was finally satisfied that all had viewed his new sword (they had visited many parts of Minas Tirith), Beregond felt that his pride had been somewhat insulted. "I'm as good a swordsman as he, but my weapon isn't of the same quality," he thought to himself. He also felt ashamed that he'd been forced to ask Boromir for a draw in their earlier mock battle. "It's not my fault; we weren't evenly matched. But I wish Boromir didn't keep that superior look pasted on his face. You'd think he was the new King!"   
  
A small thought occurred to Beregond around this time. The three boys were approaching a wide courtyard, just past the third city gate, and he spotted a well up ahead. Beregond realized that, although he could not best his friend in a sword fight, he might best him in something else ere the day was through. "Aye, Boromir," he began.   
  
Boromir halted, nearly causing his younger brother to crash into him. Then he turned towards Beregond. "What?" he asked. Boromir noticed the slight competitive glint in his friend's eyes, and smirked. "Are you planning another sword fight?" he teased.  
  
"Of course not," answered Beregond. "I don't stand a chance against such a fine sword as yours. But, perhaps it is the weapon, and not the person behind it that makes you strong."  
  
Boromir could tell that Beregond was setting him up, but he stepped into the trap anyways, eager to hear what challenge might be presented towards him. "What do you suggest, Beregond? I'm as good at anything else as I am using my sword."  
  
"So, you would agree to a small challenge?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"Alright then, I'll climb into that well over there," Beregond pointed, "lower myself, and touch the water at the bottom with my hand. You just try to follow me afterwards."  
  
Boromir laughed. "That's easy enough, so I accept your challenge. Lead the way!"  
  
Beregond ran over to the well, followed by Boromir and Faramir. All three boys looked around to see if anyone was watching. There were people in the vicinity, although no one paid much attention. After all, it was not uncommon for the children in the area to be sent to the well to draw water, though, of course they were not meant to climb inside. Then, the boys gazed into the dark depths of the well.  
  
Beregond whistled. "That's pretty far down," he admitted, his voice shaking ever so slightly.   
  
Boromir laughed. "But if you keep your word, like any good Man of Gondor, you will perform your deed," he said, mimicking words he often heard from Denethor. Beregond looked a little indignant at the idea of not following through on his words. With a determined look on his face, he grabbed an end of a rope, attached to a bucket, and proceeded to tie it around himself. Then, he grasped the opposite end, after it made its way through a sort of pulley, and climbed on top of the well. No adults in the area appeared to notice.  
  
Suddenly, Beregond took a deep breath, and, using a hand over hand motion, managed to lower himself down the well. Boromir peered into the black depths, but eventually lost sight of him. Faramir pulled himself onto the well, so he could see, and cupped a hand around one ear to listen.  
  
"He went down very far," Faramir said suddenly, pointing. Boromir glanced at him, slightly surprised, for he had said very little all day. "I hear him. He says he is almost at the bottom." He listened again. "There's splashing noise. He touched the water." Both boys saw the rope stop moving.  
  
Boromir heard it too. "I guess he'll be coming up again soon. Then it's my turn." The rope began creaking along the pulley, this time in the opposite direction.  
  
In a few minutes, a panting Beregond emerged from the depths. Boromir helped pull him out of the well, quickly, in hopes that no adults would notice. He realized that Beregond's hands were indeed wet from the cold well water far below. The other boy saw the surprise in his face, and grinned.  
  
"See," said Beregond, as he freed himself from the rope. "I did as I said. Now, the question is, will you?"  
  
"Aye!" Boromir grabbed the rope from the other's hands, and tied it securely around himself. "I'm not a coward; you'll see."  
  
"So I will," replied Beregond.  
  
Boromir climbed on top of the well, and, grasping the rope's opposite end, prepared to lower himself. However, a small voice suddenly piped up, and a hand grabbed him. He turned, and his gaze fell upon Faramir.  
  
"Don't go," pleaded his younger brother. "You're no coward! You don't have to prove it." His gray eyes were boring into Boromir's.  
  
Beregond scoffed. "Come on, Faramir," he exclaimed, pulling him away. "He's not going anywhere, anyways. He doesn't have the courage to do what I did." Beregond held onto the smaller boy, but his eyes were upon Boromir.  
  
Boromir sighed to himself, and nearly leaped into the well, for he feared his courage would fail him if he went to slowly. As he disappeared down into the black depths, Faramir used one of his small feet to aim a kick at Beregond, then wrenched himself free and ran back to the well. Beregond rubbed his shin where the blow fell, but soon went over to the other boy, and scanned the interior of the well, looking for Boromir.  
  
  
  
********  
  
Boromir lowered himself rather quickly down the shaft. He heard a plaintive voice call his name several times from above, but it soon faded away. The boy focused all his energy on simply going to the water level, then making it back up. He shook a little in fear, but managed not to give in to the feelings of complete terror running around his head. A little deep breathing helped.  
  
Presently, Boromir reached the water. He carefully held himself in place by wrapping his feet around the rope, then leaned forward. "I simply have to touch the water," he murmured. "Just a little bit farther....."   
  
When his hands touched the cool wetness at the bottom of the well, he drew back slightly. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "That's cold! I guess I forgot how cool the water is that I drink each day with my meals." He made sure his hands were thoroughly wet, so he could prove to Beregond that he had indeed climbed all the way down. Then, he began pulling himself upwards. It was much more difficult than going down, and several times he stopped to rest.  
  
On one such occasion, Boromir relaxed for a moment, panting. He could see the light up ahead at the top, not too much farther above him. "I'm almost there," he thought. "Now I'll show Beregond..."  
  
Suddenly, a loud snapping noise echoed up and down the well shaft. The rope tied around Boromir, which, unknowns to him had slowly been fraying, finally snapped under the boy's weight. He gave a short cry, then found himself plunging downward, straight into the cold water below.  
  
  
********  
  
  
Beregond and Faramir saw the rope snap. The former lunged forward to grab it as it fell, but missed. He slid along the top of the well, and would have fallen in himself had not Faramir hung onto his arm tightly. Beregond righted himself, with a look of panic spread across his face. Before he could speak, however, the other cried out.  
  
"Boromir! Boromir!" 


	5. Prisoner of the Watery Depths

Notes: Words enclosed in dashes indicate Boromir dreaming.  
  
  
  
The icy well water chilled Boromir to the bone as he plunged into the depths. He tried to yell for help, but his voice was gone. Instead, he choked as water rushed into his nose, his mouth, and his lungs.  
  
Boromir had been swimming a few rare instances before, but under much different circumstances. Never had the water seemed so cold, so cruel as it crawled across his body, attempting to pull him down deeper, where there was no light. The boy gasped and sputtered as he finally broke the surface. His frantic paddling kept his head above the water, though he began to tire quickly. At one point, he waved his hands around madly, searching along the black walls for some sort of handhold, for anything; yet he touched only smooth stones. A rope and bucket fell alongside him, and he grabbed on tightly. Unfortunately, it soon occurred to him that it came not from a helping hand far above; it was simply the rope he had used to lower himself into the well. He allowed it to slip from his hands, and he continued in his struggle.  
  
It became increasingly difficult to stay afloat inside the well, as exhaustion began to creep into the boy's body. He had been shaking violently in the water, from both cold and terror, but now a strange sort of numbness began to fill his thoughts. Try as Boromir might, there was no energy left to paddle, nothing to keep the water from closing in around him. Once again, he sank into the depths, and water began to fill his lungs. He attempted to cry out, but no air reached him, and nothing could be said. A last thought flew through his fading mind; how Faramir had tried to keep him from entering the dismal well. Then, all things went to darkness.  
  
********  
  
Beregond seemed unable to react after his failed attempt to snatch Boromir's rope before it fell. He simply stared down into the depths below, vaguely registering the howls of Faramir as he vainly called out his brother's name. The older boy's feet were rooted to the spot.  
  
Faramir was horrified when he saw the rope slipping away, as if he realized that, with it slipped away a hope for Boromir's rescue. He cried out his brother's name, sobbing. However, he was not doomed to Beregond's fate.  
  
Suddenly, Faramir found himself able to think clearly again. Even at his young age, it occurred to him that sitting around crying was not helping his brother. Instead, he began to yell, and his words reverberated across the street. "Help! He fell into the well! Somebody help!"  
  
These cries, like those of most young children, did not go unheeded. Almost immediately, a few people rushed over to where Faramir stood, after seeing the boy's distress. One woman attempted to pick him up, but he refused to be held, instead choosing to repeat his words. The woman spoke to him.  
  
"Child, what is the matter? You are yelling about someone in the well?" she inquired quickly.  
  
"He fell in!" Faramir insisted, pointing into the dark tunnel nearby.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Boromir! Boromir fell!"  
  
"Who is that?"  
  
"My brother! He's my brother! The rope broke and he fell in!"  
  
Faramir's yelling seemed to be attracting quite a crowd. He repeated what he had said before, and again pointed to the well. "You have to help him!"  
  
Meanwhile, Beregond finally overcame his initial shock, and snapped to attention. "Boromir fell into the well!" he cried. "He can't get out! Somebody has to help him!"  
  
The nearby people suddenly seemed to grasp that Faramir's story was not simply the result of some childish nightmares, and bolted into action. One ran found a new rope nearby, a strong one that would easily support his weight. He tied it to himself, as Beregond and Boromir had done not long before, and was lowered into the well by a few others. Slowly, slowly he descended, much to the dismay of Faramir. The woman who spoke to him was attempting to hold the squirming boy, and keep him away from the well's edge. He struggled to escape her grasp; then cried out, "Faster, faster, faster! Go faster!" There was no calming him.  
  
It seemed an eternity later, though perhaps it was only a minute, when a loud shout emerged from the well, and those above ceased their lowering of the rope. Apparently, the man had reached the water level, or had at least seen something to warrant his stopping. The people standing near the well above all became silent. Beregond once again had a stricken look on his face, though a woman was making an effort to comfort him. Faramir halted his struggling, and strained his ears, desperately listening for a sound of any kind emitting from the dark hole.  
  
Suddenly, another shout echoed up the passage of the well. The men grasping the rope worked swiftly, pulling their comrade back up, back into the light. A hand emerged, then a head, as the man was helped out of the well. Faramir wrenched himself from the woman's grip, and lunged forward, sobbing, as he spotted the limp bundle in the man's arms.  
  
It was Boromir; yet, at the same time, it was not Boromir. His eyes were closed, and his bluish tinted faces gave him a ghastly look. He did not draw breath, even now that he had escaped the water's clutches. His skin was cold to the touch.  
  
********  
  
--------Boromir looked around, confused. He felt the darkness fade away around him, and suddenly found himself lying in a strange boat, drifting aimlessly along in the river. The boy was startled. Had he not been in a dark well only seconds before? Where did the sun come from, and what happened to the city? It was nowhere in sight. There was only the great river, surrounded by some sort of forest.  
  
The breeze picked up slightly, and Boromir thought, for a moment, that he heard a voice. It was fairly deep, singing a song of words that he could not make out, though it sounded like a lament for some fallen hero. Then, there was another voice, a bit higher this time, the like of which he had never heard before.  
  
Suddenly, a great roaring noise filled the boy's ears. Boromir leaned out of the unusual boat, and his eyes widened with fear. He was on the brink of a massive waterfall! Before he could react, he felt himself plunging into space, towards the angry roaring down below.------------  
  
********  
  
The man who had rescued Boromir carefully lowered the boy's body to the ground, tilting his head enough to allow some of the water to drain from his lungs. He then pressed his ear to the boy's chest, listening for any sign of a heartbeat. It was there, but oh! How slowly and faintly it beat! At any moment, it could suddenly stop, for lack of air.  
  
A second person, a woman this time, knelt down beside the limp Boromir. She carefully placed her hands upon him, and, with a few quick strokes, expelled some more of the water from his lungs. Then, the man listened again, but still there was no breath.  
  
The woman forced even more liquid from Boromir's lungs, but he did not breath. His heart grew ever fainter.  
  
Suddenly, Faramir, who had stopped beside the well, leaped forward. Slipping past the hands that strove to hold him, he reached his brother. With a short sob, he threw himself upon Boromir, and hugged the brother whom he loved very dearly. The man who stood nearby was startled at the sudden approach of the young child, but soon ignored him, for something else had caught his attention. A small cough emerged from Boromir's mouth; then a few more. His eyes were still closed, his mind was still dead to the world around him, but his body managed to take a few ragged breaths. 


	6. Only Dispair

Boromir woke up with a jolt in the dead of night, gasping for air. A fit of coughing seized him, and his lungs felt as though they were on fire. For a moment, he simply lay in bed, choking on the liquid that still lingered in his airway. His eyes were wide with fear, and he believed he was still inside the darkness of the well, drowning in the icy water.  
  
Suddenly, his coughing fit subsided, and he took a few ragged breaths to calm himself. A hand reached over to Boromir, and gently lay on top of his burning forehead. "It's all right now, my son," a deep voice murmured. "You are safe here."  
  
Boromir felt extremely disoriented. He recognized the voice that spoke to him as Denethor's, but where was he? How did he escape the clutches of the well, and why did he feel a great weight across his body? The boy struggled briefly to rise, but his father stopped him.  
  
"Not now, not now. You need to rest."  
  
Boromir ceased in his attempts to get up. Instead, he blinked a few times, then strove to speak. a few choked words emitted from his raw throat. "Father, where am I?"   
  
Denethor answered him softly. "You are in your own room, in the tower, and it is now the middle of the night.  
  
The Steward paused as another coughing fit wracked the boy's body, and sighed. Boromir had managed to evade death inside the well, but now, hours later, he still had trouble drawing breath. Denethor also noticed the flushed appearance of the boy's skin, visible even in the dim light.  
  
As Boromir became quiet again, Denethor continued speaking. "I was attending to some business here, in the tower, when suddenly a small group of people entered the hall. One man at the front carried you in his arms. He told me that you had fallen into a well, and nearly drowned." Denethor stopped once more, and sighed. He did not mention the fearful cries of Faramir, as he had struggled in the arms of the woman carrying him, or the terrified expression on the face of the other boy present. The other boy- Beregond was his name, had mentioned something like, "I didn't mean to miss catching the rope! Is he all right? I didn't mean anything!"  
  
Boromir seemed satisfied with this description of events. Or, was it satisfaction that caused him to close his eyes and drift into sleep? Perhaps he was overcome with sickness and exhaustion.  
  
Denethor felt his son's forehead again, giving the boy a worried glance. A fever appeared to be burning in his body, and his breath rattled in his chest.  
  
  
********  
  
About an hour later, Denethor stepped out of his son's room for a moment. A terrible shadow was growing in his mind, and he feared the worst for Boromir. Two of Gondor's finest healers had attended to the boy earlier that day, but their news was grim. It appeared as though Boromir had spent several minutes underwater, and only the swift work of his rescuers had brought him back from the brink of death. Unfortunately, some of the icy well water yet remained in his lungs, causing a shortness of breath. There was no telling the full extent of the damage to his respiratory system. The boy had also been thoroughly chilled from the conditions of the well, and now seemed to pay the price with an ever rising fever.  
  
The Steward, the most powerful man in the whole of Gondor suddenly felt very weak. He felt that he might lose his eldest son at any time, yet there was nothing he could do except comfort the boy, and hope.  
  
  
********  
  
In a different room of the palace, Faramir was sitting up in bed. He was not in his own room, and the unfamiliar surroundings, coupled with the horror of the day's events made sleep impossible. Thus, the boy remained awake throughout the hours of the night.  
  
Overall, Faramir was extremely uneasy. When he arrived at the tower in the afternoon with the others, he had been whisked away suddenly, away from the men, away from his father, and away from his brother. A tower guard had simply grasped his hand and pulled him to another place, while he struggled in vain against the iron grip. Now, he began to feel increasingly unhappy, not to mention slightly suspicious. Why would they not let him remain with Boromir?   
  
An evil answer seemed to play over and over in his mind. "Something's wrong," he thought to himself, many times during the later hours of that day, and night. "Something is very wrong, and they don't want me around."  
  
Suddenly, another thought occurred to the boy. "Boromir is dying. That's why I can't see him."   
  
He shook his head vigorously at that, but still, it rushed through his mind again. Inside his head, Faramir argued with himself.  
  
"He's dying."  
  
"No, he's not!"  
  
"He is dying, and you know it."  
  
"No!"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Faramir sobbed. No matter how he tried to answer the evil thought, it would not satisfy him.   
  
He closed his eyes for a moment, and suddenly saw himself, standing outside the walls of Gondor. The grass was blowing, just like it had on that day he snuck away with Boromir, months ago. However, there was a cruel edge to the wind, and it seemed to be laughing at the unhappiness of the small boy. He walked a few feet; then stopped when he saw what appeared to be a tomb. Faramir knelt down on his knees, gazing at it's carved face. The boy could not read the words engraved upon the tomb, but in his heart, he saw his brother's face.  
  
"NO! NO! NO!" cried the boy as his eyes snapped open. He scrambled out of the strange bed where he sat, and bolted out of the room.  
  
  
********  
  
Once again, Denethor was back besides the bed of his eldest son. He sat wearily in his chair, listening to the raspy breathing of Boromir, and occasionally feeling his burning forehead. The boy was slowly worsening. He woke up each time a coughing fit enveloped his body, but his gray eyes were glazed over from fever. Boromir could no longer speak. He simply moaned each time Denethor attempted to give him a drink, for even the cool water did not go kindly down his raw throat.  
  
As the minutes passed slowly by, the Steward sank further and further into dispair. He had always imagined both of his sons, growing up into strong, proud Men of Gondor, and performing valiant deeds in battle. Now, it seemed as if only one might make through the next few days. A single tear trickled slowly down the man's cheek; then he buried his face in his hands.  
  
Suddenly, a small noise brought him back to his senses. Denethor looked up abruptly, and saw a tiny shadow run into the dim room. Faramir, he thought vaguely. He simply watched as the young boy reached his brother's bed, and touched the older boy on the face.  
  
"Boromir?" Faramir's uncertain whisper reached the Steward's ears. "Boromir? Come back, Boromir. Why are you so hot?" He began to cry to himself.  
  
Denethor then spoke. "Faramir," he said. The boy jumped up, startled by the words. Apparently, in his hurry to reach the bed, he had failed to notice his father in the room. "Faramir, you should be asleep."  
  
The young boy looked up at his father, silent for a moment. Then, to Denethor's great shock, he spoke. "Daddy, is he going to die?" he asked, gazing into the Steward's eyes.  
  
Denethor had not expected his younger son to even speak to him, for he rarely did, and at first he did not comprehend the question. Then, it suddenly hit him, like a tremendous weight. He glanced for a moment into the bright eyes of Faramir, and found that he could not answer. Instead, his normally stern self-control left him for a second time. He looked away from the sad glance of his son, and buried his face in his hands once again.  
  
Faramir did not like the empty, hopeless expression he saw in Denethor's face. The father whom he'd always held in awe, whom he'd even feared at times for the stern look in his eyes, seemed to be falling apart. The boy ceased his crying.  
  
"Daddy?" There was no answer.  
  
The younger son tried once more. "Daddy?" There was still no answer.  
  
Faramir caught another glimpse of the grief in Denethor's eyes. Sadness seized the boy; but this time he did not give into his tears. Instead, he slowly approached his father, and crawled into his lap. Then, he spoke one last time.  
  
"Daddy, I'm here."  
  
For several moments, Faramir simply sat still, hugging his father in an attempt to bring him a light, a tiny light that might pierce the darkness he sensed in Denethor's heart. Feeling some small ray of peace at last, the boy eventually gave into sleep.  
  
Thus, the three passed the rest of the night. Boromir still slept feverishly in his bed, seized by coughing fits now and then. Faramir rested in his father's lap, comforted by the feeling that he was now closer to his family. Finally, Denethor sat up in his chair, beginning to overcome his dispair as he watched over his eldest as he slept, and gently held his youngest in his arms. 


	7. Mithrandir's Hope

Thanks for the reviews! I will try to update as often as possible, although not always everyday, because even I have times when I'm not on the computer.  
  
Note: According to the book, Denethor should be fairly familiar with Mithrandir, because he has visited Gondor many a time. However, the wizard is not well-liked by the Steward.  
  
___________________________________________________________________  
  
  
  
  
The day dawned cold and bright over the city of Minas Tirith. A thin ray of light flickered slowly through the window of Boromir's room, creeping along the floor until it spilled across the sleeping face of Faramir. The small boy awoke with a start. For a moment, he felt confusion racing through his mind. Where was he? Why wasn't he asleep in his own bed?  
  
Faramir jerked himself up; then, as he felt Denethor stir, his memories came flooding back. He recalled the horrifying events outside the well, the swift procession back to the tower, the look of dispair on his father's face when he saw Boromir's face. The boy shuddered, wishing he was still asleep, in the blissful emptiness that had filled his mind.  
  
Denethor, realizing that Faramir was now awake, shifted his mirthless gaze upon his younger son. He sighed as he saw the pained expression on the boy's face, and attempted to comfort him, though his sad heart defeated any attempts for a cheerful tone. "Good morning, my son," he whispered to Faramir. "I see you are now awake again. Perhaps you should go to the kitchens for awhile and get something to eat?"  
  
The small boy shook his head, for he did not wish to leave his brother, despite the gnawing hunger he began to feel in his stomach. He'd refused all food since the previous afternoon. "I'm not very hungry," he began, but a sudden noise from his belly showed his words to be false.  
  
Denethor managed a short chuckle, but then his face became grave once again. "You are hungry, little one. Go get some food. Do not worry, Boromir will still be here when you return."  
  
Faramir looked at his father, slightly skeptical. "Promise?" he asked solemnly.  
  
"Of course. Do not worry yourself. Go now."  
  
Though he was only partially satisfied with his father's answer, Faramir nonetheless climbed out of Denethor's lap, and slowly dragged his feet towards the door. He turned back for a moment in the doorway, unhappiness spilling out of his gray eyes.  
  
"It will take only a moment for you to eat, Faramir. Go now."  
  
Forcing himself to face the door, Faramir pushed it open slowly, and stepped out into the brightly lit hall on the other side.  
  
  
********  
  
Throughout the night, Boromir had fallen victim to severe coughing fits. Now, in the early hours of dawn, Denethor felt his son's forehead once again. How hot it was! It seemed as if the harsh rays of the sun were burning in Boromir's body. Streams of sweat ran down his face, and he was quickly becoming dehydrated. Unfortunately, try as he might, Denethor could not get the boy to drink. He wavered between consciousness and unconsciousness, but he never awoke fully enough to take even a sip of the cool water offered to him. The Steward tried again and again to get his son to drink, but he was unsuccessful, and he did not dare attempt pouring anything down his throat, lest Boromir choke to death.  
  
One of the healers whom Denethor had summoned the previous afternoon quietly entered the room. He carried in his hand a golden goblet, containing one of the most powerful medicines he possessed. The healer set it down on a table adjacent to the boy's bed, then spoke.  
  
"Is he any better, my lord?" he inquired of the Steward.  
  
Denethor wished he could say yes, his son was better, and the threat of death has passed. Instead, he answered, "Nay," he voice shaking ever so slightly.  
  
"I feared that would be your answer, my lord. Therefore, I have prepared a special healing medicine for your son, but it can only take effect if he drinks it soon." The healer motioned to the goblet, then, seeing the distress in the Steward's eyes, he softly added, "Shall I send for somebody?"  
  
"Nay."  
  
"A friend, perhaps? One of your men?"  
  
Frustration gave Denethor's voice an angry glint. "Nay!"  
  
"All right then. I shall leave you in peace." The healer quickly exited through the door, his eyes downcast. The Steward turned his gaze to the goblet, then back towards his son. He would try once again to get Boromir to drink, though in his mind, he had little hope left for him.  
  
  
********  
  
Faramir plodded through the great hall, towards the kitchens. Distress ran wildly through his veins, and at every moment he had to force himself not to run back, crying, towards Boromir's room. To take his mind off his utter dispair, he focused on the smells of warm food that reached his nose, which he had to admit, were fairly intriguing. His stomach let out another growl, begging for something to eat.  
  
"I am pretty hungry," he mumbled to himself. "And Daddy promised Boromir would still be there when I got back."   
  
The mention of his brother made him sad again. He wandered into the kitchens, eyes fixed on the floor as a few tears ran down his cheeks. Faramir told himself that he would eat swiftly, then immediately return to his father and brother.  
  
So absorbed was the boy in his unhappy thoughts, that he did not notice the stranger who strode into the kitchens until it was too late. Faramir gasped, startled, as he stumbled straight into a tall person wearing a long, grayish cloak.  
  
"What's this?" cried the stranger, with an amused look on his face. He grabbed the boy's shoulders to prevent him from falling, and steadied him. "I arrive at the great tower in Minas Tirith, home of the Steward Denethor, and a strange sort of hobbit greets me!" He gave Faramir another glance. "Ahh!," he teased. "My eyes must be going on me, for you are no hobbit, but a child of Men."  
  
Faramir's eyes attempted to focus on the person who had spoken. He saw a strange man, tall and keen eyed, with a long flowing beard that matched perfectly with his white hair. The boy was confused, for he had not seen anyone resembling him in Gondor, or even amongst the occasional visitors of Rohan, or the prisoners from Harad. And what was that strange thing he said? A hobbit? Faramir had never heard of such a thing.  
  
The stranger seemed to notice the unhappiness deep in the boy's eyes, partially hidden by the puzzlement spread across his face. He spoke again, softly, with a more serious tone. "I am called Mithrandir, the wizard, and I arrived here only a moment ago, to speak to the Steward. Who are you, my lad?"  
  
Faramir was still examining the newcomer, but something told him that Mithrandir was not evil. Unusual, yes, but not intending any harm. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor," he answered, softly.  
  
Mithrandir stared at Faramir with surprise. "You are the Steward's son?" He looked over the boy again, more carefully this time. "Well then, Faramir, might you lead me to your father? I have traveled a great distance to see him, and I must speak to him concerning a matter of tremendous importance." He waited for a response.  
  
"You can't see him," replied Faramir. "He....he....he is with my brother. Boromir fell into a well yesterday, and he's very, very sick." A small sob escaped from him.  
  
The wizard looked thoughtful. "Ahh," he murmured, mostly to himself. "That explains the lad I saw leaving moments ago. He seemed to be crying something about a well...and how it wasn't his fault." Mithrandir stopped suddenly when he saw the tear brimmed eyes of the boy staring at him. "I'm very sorry to hear about your brother," he said softly. "But, he still lives, you say?"  
  
"Aye." Faramir's answer was barely more than a whisper.  
  
"Well, perhaps there is something I can do to help him...." The wizard's voice trailed off for a moment; then he continued. "Lead me to him, Faramir son of Denethor, and I may have something to aid in his healing."  
  
A tiny beam of hope shone in Faramir's eyes at these words. Maybe Boromir was not doomed to die... The boy immediately straightened himself, and, without a word, gestured for the wizard to follow him. With his hunger forgotten, at least for the moment, he lead the stranger back towards his brother's room.  
  
  
********  
  
Denethor was startled when he heard quick footsteps approaching Boromir's room. Surely Faramir could not be finished eating yet? He had sent the boy away only moments before.  
  
The Steward stood up when his younger son entered, surprised by the strange, almost eager look on his face. Behind him came what appeared to be a man, clad in a worn gray cloak, and carrying a wooden staff. Denethor recognized him immediately, for he had seen the likes of him before.  
  
"Mithrandir," he stated, calmly, although there seemed to be a slight, steely undertone in his words. "What brings you back here to Gondor?"  
  
The wizard spoke. "I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you, but at the current time, it seems as though it must be laid aside." He gestured towards Boromir, whose harsh, rapid breathing filled the small room.  
  
"I am capable of caring for my children." The Steward's voice rose slightly.  
  
"Denethor, he is dying. Even from where I stand I can hear his shallow breaths, and see the sweat pouring down his face. But I do have knowledge of herbs and their healing properties. Perhaps I can help him." He paused.  
  
The Steward had a hopeless look on his face. He seemed to be caught between his dislike for the wizard, and his pain over the thought of losing his son. Denethor shifted his glance over to Boromir, and realized that Mithrandir spoke truthfully. The Steward had not been able to get his son to drink any potions, or even water. Without help, he might be dead within the day. With a heavy heart he sighed; then said, "All right, Mithrandir. I cannot say your visit pleases me greatly. However, if you can save my son, I shall have something to thank you for."  
  
  
  
********  
  
A few moments had passed since the Steward gave leave for the wizard to attempt to heal the ailing Boromir. Now, Mithrandir, with a little help from Faramir, was creating some sort of potion with a powerful, scented plant. The small boy had hope in his eyes, though his face was still haunted with unhappiness. However, despite his feelings, he managed to do a satisfactory job assisting the wizard.  
  
Soon, the smell of the potion wafted through the entire room. Faramir inhaled it sharply, and sensed its power. Denethor still looked grim although, when he caught the potion's scent, even his downcast eyes brightened a little. The Steward had listened carefully whilst the medicine was prepared, and he spoke again as it was completed.  
  
"I will give it to him, but I know not if he can drink it. Boromir had not taken any water or medicine in many hours now." Sorrow was in his voice, mingled with his frustration.  
  
Mithrandir nodded silently, and carefully filled a small cup with the potion. "Here," he said, placing it in the Steward's trembling hands. "See if he can take it." Then, he stood back, and silently watched. Faramir crept over to the edge of Boromir's bed.  
  
Slowly, Denethor lifted his elder son's head. "Boromir?" he whispered. "Wake up now; you must drink this."  
  
There was no response. "Boromir?" he said again.   
  
Still no response.  
  
Denethor tried once more. "Boromir? Boromir, please wake up! You must take this!"  
  
Perhaps it was the strange, powerful scent of the potion that finally succeeded. Or, perhaps it was simply the sound of Denethor, the proud Steward of Gondor, forced to plead for his son's life. Nonetheless, Boromir suddenly stirred. His tired, feverish eyes fluttered open. "Father?" he inquired weakly.  
  
Hope spread across Denethor's face, and tears were in his eyes. "Hello, my son," he whispered. "You need to drink this now." He gently tilted the contents of the cup into Boromir's mouth. With the remainder of his strength, the boy swallowed the strange potion, then closed his eyes once again. The Steward lay his son's head back down upon the bed, and set the cup on the nearby table.  
  
Faramir was smiling slightly now. Denethor caught the happiness in his younger son's eyes, and spoke to him. "Boromir may yet live, Faramir. Now I have seen a beam of hope in this dark day. He may yet live."  
  
"He will live, Daddy," Faramir replied. 


	8. Raging Words

Thanks for the continued reviews! I appreciate them a lot, and like I stated before, they encourage me to keep writing.  
  
Note: In case you are unsure, an example of a palantír (or seeing-stone) is the round, black stone Saruman uses to communicate with Sauron. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe there are 9 in total.  
  
_____________________________________________________________  
  
  
  
As the hours crept by slowly, deliberately, it appeared as though Faramir's words might indeed be true. Even after a single dose of Mithrandir's unusually potent medicine, Boromir began to breath more easily. A rattling noise was still present in his lungs, but it grew fainter as time wore on, and the rivers of sweat seemed to cease their flowing down the boy's face. Denethor managed a relieved sigh when he felt his eldest son's forehead and found it not so warm to the touch as before.  
  
"Your strange healing potion appears to be taking effect," he murmured, more to himself than to the wizard standing nearby. The Steward turned, then, speaking a bit louder said, "And for that I thank you. I could not have prepared myself for the death of my son, and my heart is glad that such a thing may not be necessary for yet awhile."  
  
Mithrandir nodded. "No father wishes to bury their son, Denethor. However, as I stated earlier, I do have a matter of great importance to discuss with you. I see your weariness, brought on partially by your anxiety, but now I implore you: Boromir seems to have improved significantly; in any case, I'd say he'll live. Therefore, please allow me time to speak concerning my important business. I came here with the intention of staying only a single day, for I am hard pressed to meet someone elsewhere, a fortnight from now, and have little time to spare."  
  
Denethor's face became somewhat stern as he met the wizard's gaze. Despite his weariness after a night of lost sleep, his voice was strong as ever. "What is it that you wish to discuss, Mithrandir? I would say you sound quite worried, and I perceive the slightest bitter undertone to your voice."  
  
The wizard motioned briefly towards Faramir, who was listening intently from besides Boromir's bed, and muttered, "This is not the appropriate place to discuss even the topic of such matters."  
  
The Steward suddenly seemed to remember the presence of his younger son. He noticed the spark of curiosity in the boy's eyes after hearing comments about "important business", though Denethor understood that a child so young had no reason to listen in on the affairs of Men. He spoke quietly, but firmly to Faramir. "My son, I believe that in your hurry to return to your brother, you once again ignored your hunger, and forgot to get a bite of breakfast. Perhaps now would be an appropriate time to do so, or at least catch the midday meal. It looks as though Boromir will shake off this illness; in any case, the threat of death no longer looms so closely over him."  
  
Faramir opened his mouth, as if to protest, but his father gave him a stern glance, and the boy thought better of speaking. Now that he had pushed aside his worries for Boromir, he was immensely interested in hearing more from the strange wizard who had so suddenly appeared. Unfortunately, Faramir also knew that, if he did not leave when told to do so, Denethor would surely kick him out, and not too kindly either. Besides, he had to admit that his gnawing hunger had returned, stronger than before. Thus, the boy crawled to his feet, and made his way slowly towards the door. Here, he paused for a second, but, when he realized neither his father or the wizard would utter another word in his presence, he walked back into the great hall, closing the door behind him.  
  
Mithrandir waited until Faramir was out of sight, then gave Boromir a questioning glance. Soon, however, it became obvious to him that the elder boy, even after the medicine, was still too exhausted and feverish to discern anything of much importance from the conversation around him. The wizard spoke to Denethor. "Your other son, whom lays here upon the bed will understand little of what we say, due to his current state, and I daresay he will remember naught of it by tomorrow morn. Thus, with your leave, I would speak."  
  
Denethor turned his attention to Mithrandir. "I still am certain that I will care not for your words, though you have saved my son, and I suppose I can lend you an ear for perhaps an hour or so. Speak now."  
  
"Very well. I come here to discuss with you matters concerning a palantír..."  
  
  
********  
  
Faramir felt unhappy once again as he entered the kitchens; thought this second time it was not over grief for Boromir. In fact, the small boy, after meeting the strange wizard and seeing him administer his powerful medicine, felt certain that his brother would soon be well. He was now feeling disappointed over his exclusion from the "grown Men" (or so he thought of it) conversation that was occuring in the room he shared with his brother.  
  
"I just wanted to hear a little of what they were saying," he muttered to himself. "I'm not that young..."  
  
Even as he sat down, and had delicous foods of many types brought before him, he still wasn't pleased. Faramir felt as though he had been cast aside, forgotten, like clothes that grow too old and worn to be of any use. He continued talking to himself, even as he ate. "I wonder what they're talking about," he said, through a mouthful of bread. "I bet it's something good!"  
  
One of the servants gave him a glance of disapproval for speaking with a mouthful of food, but the small boy paid little attention. Instead, he continued mumbling to himself, this time incoherently.  
  
Eventually, Faramir managed to finish his meal. He stood up quickly, nearly knocking his plate to the floor, and, in his hurry to get back to the bed chamber, managed to trip over the bench. The boy landed on the stone floor with a dull thud.  
  
A sharp pain ran through his knees, but he simply scrambled to his feet. Ignoring a few chuckles from the servants, he bolted out of the kitchen and back into the great hall.  
  
  
********  
  
  
Faramir had spent perhaps a half-hour away from the bedroom, eating his meal. During this time, he had been too far away to discern the rising voices that emerged from the place he had left. As he made his way quickly back to Boromir's room, however, he suddenly caught some angry shouts. In fact, they were becoming so loud that a few others in the vicinity paused for a moment, listening to the voices echoing across the stone walls.  
  
"You will NOT order me around in my own home!"  
  
"Such foolish actions endanger your kingdom! You cannot continue!"  
  
"Foolish actions, you call them! Many a time I have seen things, giving me valuable knowledge, capable of protecting my men!"  
  
"Who knows what evil presence may also make use of the seeing-stones?!"  
  
"Noble Men are powerful enough to avoid corruption by evil forces!"  
  
"It is too great a risk! And it is begining to wear you down, Denethor! You age more quickly than you should!"  
  
"I age in my own time! Now OUT! Begone! You may have saved my son, which I still may be grateful for, but your words serve to negate much of your noble action!"  
  
Faramir reached the door to the bedroom, and had to leap clear when it suddenly sprang open. The wizard Mithrandir stormed out, his face red with a combination of anger and frustration. He spotted the young boy, and paused for a brief moment, giving him a look of appraisal. Faramir gazed up at him in confusion. What had occured between the wizard and the Steward while he was away?  
  
At that moment, Denethor burst through the door, shaking his fist. "You bring your cursed ideas here this day! Next time you shall not be welcome, Mithrandir. I order you to leave the city of Minas Tirith now!"  
  
Mithrandir turned his gaze away from the boy, and looked the Steward in the eye. His initial anger seemed to be fading, and his voice was a bit calmer, shaking only slightly. "I fear for your kingdom if you continue to use the seeing-stone," he stated. "Do not let wisdom fail you, Denethor. If need be, look to your sons." His eyes shifted to Faramir for an instant; then, with a swish of his gray cloak, he strode towards the door at the front of the hall. Soon, he was out of sight.  
  
The Steward managed to calm himself with a few deep breaths, though his face was still red. All of the people who happened to be nearby, save only Faramir, immediately percieved their leader's foul mood, and quickly found ways of dissappearing from the vicinity. Denethor mumbled a few phrases to himself, before turning back towards Boromir's room.  
  
As he walked through the doorway, he suddenly spoke to Faramir. "I would hope that my sons would trust more in their own father than in the mysterious works of wizards," he stated grimly. He then entered the bedroom, to continue his care of Boromir, and shut the door firmly behind him.  
  
Faramir simply stood there. He was still slightly curious concerning the conversation between Denethor and Mithrandir.  
  
However, he found himself unable to follow his father back into the room. 


	9. Four Intruders

Don't worry, more interaction with Boromir and Faramir is coming. I just haven't had too much lately, simply because Boromir was sick.  
  
Note: Mergil is a minor original character, (a boy living in Minas Tirith) around a year younger than Boromir. I created him simply because I needed another child besides just Beregond, for the two brothers to interact with.  
  
  
_______________________________________  
  
As the days passed slowly by, Boromir steadily improved. Mithrandir's medicine seemed to do the trick, and the boy's sickness faded from his body. During this time, Faramir attempted to explain some of the strange conversation he had overheard between the wizard and his father; however, Boromir, as Mithrandir had predicted, could recall nothing. In fact, the elder brother was not very interested in the ideas of wizards anyways, for they seemed to be too "academic", and the boy thought little of the argument that had occurred. Faramir saw this, and simply tucked the memory away in the back of his mind.   
  
After perhaps a week, Boromir felt considerably better. He had not fully regained his former strength; however, a relieved Denethor gave him permission to spend a little time away from the tower.  
  
"After all," explained the Steward, "some fresh air is bound to improve both body and spirit." He also pointed out that the danger of a relapse had passed, and, so long as Boromir did not over-exert himself, some exercise would be of no harm. In fact, Denethor was extremely weary from taking care of his son for the duration of a week that he looked forward to the prospect of a little free time for catching up on other affairs.  
  
Thus, after a hearty breakfast, Boromir and Faramir left the tower, looking for some entertainment. Both were in high spirits. For Boromir, who had spent ages (so it seemed to him) cooped up in his room, it felt like a wonderful escape from the constraints of sickness. He was pleased to be wandering around the city once again, and, if he felt any weakness at all, he stubbornly denied it. Faramir was thrilled to be with his brother. He also felt great pride, for on that morning he had returned Boromir's metal sword to him, (for Faramir had carefully stored it away during the sickness), and his delighted older brother decided, in return, to give him his old wooden weapon. Though it was of mediocre quality, for a five year old boy it made the ideal gift, and now Faramir firmly grasped it as he walked.  
  
Presently, the brothers passed through the fifth city gate, and began to search for some companions. They knew Beregond lived in the vicinity, along with some other boys around Boromir's age. In fact, it was quite uncommon to wander the surrounding city streets and not stumble upon some friends. The usual people were milling about Minas Tirith, attending to their daily business, and the brothers expected it to be a fairly simple matter of hunting down some other boys. However, this turned out not to be the case. Nearly half an hour went by, and they saw none of the familiar faces of theirs friends.  
  
"Where is everyone?" asked Boromir, puzzled. They had checked all of the usual locations, but they were devoid of anyone their age. "Is there a festival going on that, in my sickness, I forgot about?"  
  
Faramir shook his head.  
  
"Well then, where could they be?" continued the elder brother. "I did want to speak to Beregond, to ensure that he remembers I kept my word about reaching the bottom of that well!" It was easy for Boromir to speak lightly about the experience, for, as he wandered about under the warm morning sun, it seemed only a distant memory. "I wonder where he is..." Boromir scanned the surrounding area, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands.  
  
The boys continued searching for their friends, but, for awhile, it seemed as though luck was not with them. Then, suddenly their fortune changed. Faramir picked up the sound of a familiar voice, drifting faintly down an unfamiliar alleyway. "They're over here," he said, pointing.  
  
"Are you sure?" answered Boromir, skeptically. "I don't see anyone."  
  
"Listen!"  
  
The older boy cupped his hand around an ear. "I think you're right. But why would they be in that alley? It is so worn and pitiful looking. See, the rocks are cracking all along the wall."  
  
Faramir could care less about the condition of the alley. "Let's go find them," he said, running towards the voices. Boromir, not to be left behind, immediately followed.  
  
  
********  
  
Boromir and Faramir soon stumbled across two other boys, near the back of the alley. One was Beregond, who grinned when he saw Boromir. "You're all right!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Of course," bragged Boromir, "and I did make it to the bottom of the well, as I said I would."  
  
The other boy, called Mergil, was only a little younger than Boromir. Both brothers had seen him before, for he often wandered around the streets during the day, challenging anyone he could find to a mock sword fight. In fact, he owned a sword that was of similar quality to Boromir's.  
  
"Hail, Boromir," he said, ignoring Faramir. His glance fell upon the older boy's sword. "I see you have a better weapon now."  
  
Boromir proudly showed off his sword. "Care for a battle?" he asked, casually, though he could not prevent the eagerness that showed on his face. "You're no match for me now."  
  
To his surprise, Mergil declined. "Nay," the other boy answered. "Maybe later. Right now, Beregond and I were in the middle of something a little more...interesting." He lowered his voice on the last word. Beregond slowly nodded his head in agreement.  
  
"What are you doing?" Faramir piped up. His curiosity had arisen. However, to Faramir's disappointment, he was once again ignored.  
  
Finally, Boromir spoke up. "Come on," he begged, "tell us what you are doing."  
  
Mergil grinned. "Well," he began, "see that wall over there?" He pointed to a short wall that connected to a small section of the alley.  
  
"Aye," answered Boromir and Faramir in unison.  
  
"There's a big dog that lives on the other side. Very big, and ferocious too."  
  
"So what?" asked Boromir, annoyed "I have seen beasts before, you know. Get to the point."  
  
"The dog guards everything on the other side of the wall," continued Mergil. "And, a few days ago, a boy dropped his fine bow after being dared to go back there and confront the dog. He ran away quickly, and being a coward, refused to return for his bow, so it's still there. Beregond and I want to sneak over there, past the dog, and claim the weapon." A fierce gleam was in his eyes.  
  
Boromir was impressed. He had never owned a bow, but both he and Faramir had practiced shooting with one many times before. Boromir's aim was decent, though he often longed for a chance to improve it (secretly jealous of his younger sibling's better aim). Most of the boys he knew had swords of some sort, yet they also dreamed of having a bow to call their own.  
  
Beregond interrupted his thoughts. "So," he inquired, "care to join us? After a well, a dog can't be that bad."  
  
Before Boromir could reply, Faramir spoke up. "I want to come," he demanded. "I have a sword too, see?" He showed them the wooden weapon.  
  
Mergil laughed. "You? You're too little! I've got years on you! You should wait here."  
  
Faramir stretched to his full height, though he was considerably smaller than the other boy, and gave him a stubborn look. "You can't stop me," he stated.  
  
"I can so!" Mergil pointed his sword at Faramir, but Boromir intervened.  
  
"He can go if he wants to," he said to Mergil, with a warning tone in his voice. "We'll all go, right?" He glanced around. Nearby, Beregond, who had remained quiet for awhile, nodded his head in agreement. He did not necessarily want Faramir along, because he was the youngest, but he wasn't interested in a fight with Boromir.  
  
Mergil finally relented. He put his sword away, though he still wore a scowl across his face. "So be it," he muttered to himself. Then, he straightened up. "Well, let's go. We aren't getting any closer to that bow by standing here talking."  
  
  
********  
  
The four boys spent a few minutes trying to devise a plan for getting past the dog. Soon, however, they became impatient, and decided to improvise as they went along.  
  
Beregond and Faramir scaled the wall first, and scanned the area behind it. To their surprise, they did not see the "ferocious dog" they had expected. "It must be hiding somewhere," mumbled Beregond, mostly to himself.  
  
Meanwhile, Boromir and Mergil climbed the wall about twenty feet away. They had a better view of the area, and, as Beregond had guessed, they saw a large, snarling dog digging behind a few bushes, mostly hidden from view. Boromir grew slightly uneasy at the sight, for the animal was bigger than he expected, and he no longer felt so sure about a possible encounter with it. Mergil seemed undaunted. He was gazing in awe at a bow, lying about forty feet way from the dog, his eyes shining in anticipation.  
  
Suddenly, the dog seemed to sense the intrusion of the boys. He immediately ceased in his digging, and, growling, ran over to one side of the wall. Beregond and Faramir jumped a little in surprise, though they were careful not to go tumbling off the wall. A fleeting look of fear leapt into Beregond's eyes, but he clenched his sword tightly, and it soon vanished. Faramir did not attempt to hide his apprehension, but neither did he move from his spot.   
  
Mergil saw that the dog was, at least temporarily, distracted by Beregond and Faramir. He decided to take the opportunity to quietly slip down the wall, landing softly on his feet. Boromir followed him cautiously, and they slowly, almost silently crept over to where the bow lay.  
  
Beregond noticed the two boys, and his fear left. He was not about to let the others get all the glory for sneaking past the animal, while he stood atop the wall acting as a distraction! With a sudden impulse, he took a piece of bread from his cloak, meant to serve as part of his lunch, and tossed it high over the dog's head, back towards the bushes. For a moment, it appeared as though the dog was not interested; then he suddenly took off after the food, his tongue lolling. Beregond slipped down the wall to the ground. Faramir paused for a second, and then joined him, clenching his sword in his right hand.  
  
Boromir and Mergil reached the bow by the time Beregond and Faramir entered the yard. They now had simply to pick it up, and retreat before the dog lost interest in the bread, and decided that boys made a better lunch. Unfortunately, they seemed to forget their silence. Mergil had insisted upon taking the bow, but Boromir was not about to lose the chance for such a weapon. He started to argue with Mergil.  
  
"It's just as much mine as yours," pointed out Boromir, "so why should you get it?"  
  
"Because I got here first!" Mergil became angry.  
  
"You did not!"  
  
"Did too!"  
  
"No you didn't!"  
  
"Did too!"  
  
Boromir and Mergil, in the way of boys their age, because oblivious to their surroundings, and focused on nothing but themselves, and the bow that divided them. Neither was willing to give in to the other. Presently, they each grabbed on to a side of the weapon, attempting to wrench it from the other's grasp.  
  
It was during this time that Beregond, who, along with Faramir, had reached Boromir's side, suddenly noticed a deep noise in the air. He swerved around, and noticed that the previously distracted dog was no longer engaged in chewing on the bread. Instead, it leaped to its feet, and advanced, snarling, towards the boys.  
  
"RUN!" Beregond yelled, scrambling back towards the wall.  
  
Mergil, Boromir, and Faramir froze. The two older boys abandoned all thoughts of the bow, and stood still, staring at the beast as it trotted closer. Then, all three came to their senses, and bolted back in the direction from which they had come. A pair of hands grabbed the bow, but none of the other three boys paid any attention. The dog snapped, and lunged after the intruders.  
  
Beregond managed to reach the wall first. Driven by terror, he managed to claw his way up the wall; then turned back to find the others.  
  
Mergil came next. He was unable to scale the wall alone, for his hands were shaking to much, but Beregond grabbed on to the top of his cloak. Luckily, Mergil was fairly light, and Beregond was able to half-drag him to the top.  
  
Faramir was not quite as quick as the other two, for his legs were considerably shorter. However, he was still swift, and reached the base of the wall a few seconds behind Mergil. He snatched on to the nearest hand hold he saw, and began pulling himself quickly up.  
  
Suddenly, all three boys noticed that Boromir was not with them. They looked up slightly, and, terrified, saw the dog as it lunged at their friend. Boromir had started running with the others, but, after a few steps, a weakness hit his body (due to his previous illness), and he stumbled. His sword slipped from his hand, and he shook as he saw the beast approach, it's snapping jaws mere inches from his feet.  
  
At that moment, an arrow sped through the air, the only one that had been left with the bow, picked up in the yard. It struck the dog in the side, and, though the wound was shallow, the sudden pain from it caused the animal to howl. The dog then whimpered in fear (for it was not used to the feeling of an arrow in its side), and dashed back towards the bushes.  
  
Boromir managed to scramble to his feet, retrieve his sword, and walk quickly to the wall. Faramir, Beregond, and Mergil all helped him over it, and then, at last, Faramir joined them.  
  
When they had reached the other side, they paused, panting. Beregond, Mergil, and Boromir all had tears in their eyes, owing to their fright, and all were silent.   
  
Then, Boromir reached over to Faramir, and hugged him, sobbing slightly. The younger boy returned the hug, still gripping the bow in his small hands. 


	10. The Fight

If Denethor thought it was unusual that Faramir had acquired a bow, he said nothing of the fact. After all, he was confident that it had not been acquired through dishonest means, and, he did not expect his generally careful younger son to do anything TOO risky with his new weapon, so he let the matter rest. The Steward had more important things to worry about anyways; like keeping a shaky peace with Harad, the kingdom of Men to the south.  
  
Thus, Faramir was allowed to keep the fine bow in his possession, with which he practiced his archery skills on a daily basis. Boromir and a few of the other boys in Gondor watched in envy, knowing that it might be a long while before they ever owned a bow of that quality.  
  
  
********  
  
Around two years passed. Boromir and Faramir shared a relatively peaceful lifestyle, despite their interest in adventure. They stuck to their studies (though Boromir grew to dislike them more and more as the days passed), and were eventually granted greater freedom to roam the city. Denethor seemed to be mostly at ease. There had been no sign of a threat from Harad for many months, and Gondor was having little difficulty driving off the Orc attacks scattered across the eastern borders.  
  
One warm day in summer, Denethor summoned his two sons to a private meeting in one of the small rooms adjacent to the great hall. It appeared as though the sunny weather had done wonders to the Steward's mood, for he smiled as he saw Boromir and Faramir approach. Both boys had somewhat suspicious looks on their faces, for normally they were not called in this way unless there was something negative to discuss.  
  
Boromir kneeled before Denethor; then gazed up into his eyes. "My father," he began nervously. "Why have you requested us at this hour? Surely we haven't done anything to...displease you?"  
  
Denethor laughed. "No, my son," he replied. "In fact, I have some news that may be of interest to you. I'm sure you're aware of the fact that Minas Tirith has received no threats from either Harad or Mordor for a considerable length of time." His gaze swept across both his sons. "A few of my messengers who arrived only yesterday morning confirmed this fact."  
  
Boromir still looked a little puzzled. "This is not something new to us, father..." he began.  
  
Faramir cut him off abruptly. His keen eyes and mind had perceived the hidden meaning behind the Steward's message. "Can we really go outside the walls?" he exclaimed, excitement shining through his face.  
  
Denethor was slightly taken aback that his younger son read his thoughts so easily, yet he did not let it show. "I see you have guessed my words, Faramir, and indeed, it is so. I have decided that both of you are now old enough to venture a little ways out of Minas Tirith. The Pelennor is not a very dangerous place in this time, for no enemies have been sighted nearby, and there are still some soldiers patrolling, making it safe for travelers."  
  
Now Boromir shared his brother's thrilled expression. "Really father?" he nearly shouted.  
  
The Steward nodded firmly. "Yes, though there's no need to yell about it. I give both you and Faramir permission to spend the day outside the city walls, so long as you are back before the setting sun, and do not wander completely out of sight." He paused for a moment, and his gray eyes suddenly grew stern. "There is one more thing. I forbid you to split from one another's company. Faramir cannot wander around alone, and I will only feel completely secure if you remain together."  
  
Both boys immediately nodded, accepting the terms. It was unlikely that they would have gone separate ways anyway, even if it had not been forbidden.  
  
Denethor waved his hand slightly in a gesture of dismissal. "You are now free to go," he stated calmly. "Remember my words, and heed my warning against splitting apart!"  
  
Boromir bowed slightly in a show of respect, then bolted from the room. Faramir ran quickly after him, though in his haste he forgot to bow. The Steward heard the two pairs of footsteps echo quietly through the hall as they slowly faded away.  
  
  
********  
  
Perhaps ten minutes had passed since the conversation with Denethor, but already Boromir and Faramir were running through the streets of Minas Tirith, dodging anything that got in their way. Boromir was in front, wearing his sword sheathed on his belt, and carrying a small bag of with a hastily packed lunch. Faramir raced behind him, his own wooden sword at his belt, while he firmly grasped his prize bow. A few people glanced up in surprise when they saw the two boys bolting past, but most took little notice, for they had other tasks to occupy their minds.  
  
Eventually, Boromir and Faramir went through the very first city gate. A guard attempted to stop them for questioning, but his partner saw that the boys were those of Denethor, and waved them through. Thus, the two brothers ran swiftly out of the city, as they had a few instances before, although this was the first time they did so without breaking their father's rules.  
  
Boromir halted suddenly outside the gate, and inhaled deeply the scent of the wide grass plains that lay before him. He scanned the surrounding area in awe, and, in the deep morning light, it seemed to him that it rivaled the beauty of even the great white tower. Faramir stood next to him, panting a little, though he too was amazed by the sight that he beheld.  
  
"It's incredible," sighed Boromir. "Behold! We are standing outside the white city, and the fact that we are now free to roam as we please makes it all the more beautiful!"  
  
Faramir nodded, though he did not speak.  
  
Boromir shook his head suddenly, as if he were emerging from a trance. "Come on!" he exclaimed. "The view is nice, but now that I've seen it, let's find something else to do!" These words seemed contradictory to his previous mindset, but now he paused again for a moment, thinking.  
  
"Let's go hunting!" Faramir cried almost instantly, raising his bow above his head. "Daddy will be happy if we bring something home today."  
  
"You mean father," corrected Boromir automatically. Now that Faramir was older, Boromir thought he ought to address the Steward by something a little, well, more formal.  
  
Faramir ignored the comment. "Well," he continued impatiently. "Can we hunt?"  
  
Boromir did not need to hear the question again, for even now, the thought was rushing through his mind. In fact, as the elder son further pondered the idea, it began to sound more and more enticing. It would be very entertaining to go hunting, and he relished the idea of presenting a magnificent trophy to Denethor. "Sure," he replied, unable to hide the rising excitement in his voice. "Sure," he repeated once again. "Let's catch something that will amaze father. I'm sure there's some sort of animal wandering around out here."  
  
The two boys began walking further from the city. As they traveled, both paid careful attention to the surrounding landscape. Their patience was fairly impressive: Boromir usually seemed unable to sit still during tedious lessons, but now, he was completely focused on the task at hand. Faramir meanwhile, performed significantly better on his studies, yet his young age made him slightly impatient at times. Now however, he followed his brother silently, studying the ground.  
  
  
********  
  
Unfortunately, the two hunters seemed to be having no luck with their hunting. They collapsed to the ground several hours later, feeling extremely disappointed. Neither had caught even the slightest glimpse of prey.  
  
Now, they slowly munched on their food, exchanging short bits of conversation about the surrounding land. Neither boy put his heart into the words, for, despite their newly acquired freedom, they suffered from dashed hopes due to the unsuccessful hunt.  
  
Boromir was muttering part of a previous sword fighting lesson under his breath, when a sudden flash appeared in the corner of his eye. He instantly became silent, and turned his gaze in the direction of the movement. Faramir started to say something, but then noticed the intent gleam in his brother's eyes. He attempted to find the thing that Boromir fixated his glance upon.  
  
Suddenly, a white speck of fur became visible, several hundred meters away. Both boys stifled their gasps, as they perceived a solitary animal moving across the plains. It was a deer, or a buck rather, for it sported a rather fine pair of horns atop its head.  
  
For a moment, Boromir and Faramir could only stare at the animal. Soon, however, the elder boy snapped to his senses. Here was a fine trophy to bring Denethor, that had, by pure good luck, happened upon their picnic site!  
  
Even as he thought, he was struck by the realization that he did not have anything in his possession capable of bringing down the buck. Of course, his sword was at his belt, but when he thought about it, the idea of him running through the grass, waving his sword seemed foolish. Even if he managed to sneak up to the animal, which he doubted, it would be nearly impossible to charge swiftly enough to even strike the creature.  
  
Boromir let his glance fall on his younger brother, and new thoughts filled his head. "One could bring down the buck with a well-placed arrow," he mused to himself, "but it's Faramir's weapon, and not mine." However, a cunning gleam appeared in the corner of his eye, as he continued to ponder. "Well," he continued inside his head, "it may be Faramir's, but surely he will lend it to me. I'm older after all, and I would only borrow it for a moment."   
  
"Faramir?" he whispered softly, almost below the point of hearing. "Will you lend me your bow for a moment?"  
  
The younger brother would have normally complied, but he was already preparing one of his few arrows, and grasped the bow firmly. "Not right now," he mumbled, "I'm busy. Just give me a minute."  
  
Boromir did not like the response. His thoughts raced through his head, growing more frantic as seconds passed. His little brother was going to slay the deer, while he sat around as a mere spectator. Then, Faramir would have something to show Denethor, while he returned empty handed. "It's not fair," thought Boromir fiercely. "I'm almost five years older! Why should he get the pride and glory today? He'll have lots of times in the future to show off his archery skills!"  
  
The older brother spoke again, slightly louder. "Come on, Faramir," he begged, "just this once!"  
  
"No, it's mine." Faramir was surprised that his brother inquired again, for, although he was a bit envious of the bow, he normally respected the fact that Faramir owned it.  
  
Boromir suddenly grew angry, something that almost never occurred, especially towards his brother. He wanted the glory of slaying a buck! He couldn't let Faramir accomplish something so important while he simply watched! Boromir lunged towards the bow.  
  
Faramir recoiled, startled. He became distracted from his careful task of fitting the arrow to his bow. "What are you doing!" he cried, fearful of the look on his brother's face. "It's mine! Go get your own bow!"  
  
The elder brother halted momentarily upon hearing the cries, but soon a glare formed upon his face. Before Faramir could react, Boromir snatched one end of the bow, and pulled it towards him. Only the younger boy's previously firm grasp prevented him from completely losing the weapon.  
  
"Give it back!" cried Faramir outloud, shaking slightly at his brother's anger. Then, a stubbornness filled his mind. "It's mine!" he thought to himself. "I said I'd let him borrow it later, but now he's trying to steal it!" His grip on the bow tightened.  
  
"I only want it for a minute," grunted Boromir, pulling at the bow.  
  
"It's mine!"  
  
"One minute; that's all I ask."  
  
"No!"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"NO!!! IT'S NOT YOURS!!!"  
  
Suddenly, Boromir noticed that the magnificent buck had been alerted to Faramir's shouts, and was now leaping away from the noise. Disgusted, he let go of the bow, causing Faramir to stumble backwards. However, Boromir did not calm down; instead, his mounting frustration seemed to turn towards rage.  
  
"Look what you did now!" the older boy yelled at his brother. "The buck got away, just because you wouldn't let me borrow your bow for ONE lousy minute! And now, I won't have anything to show father, and neither will you, thanks to your stupidity!"  
  
Faramir had been initially shocked by Boromir's behavior, but now he angrily stood up, firmly planted his feet, and faced him. "I could have shot the buck," the younger boy said stubbornly. "You're just mad 'cause I was going to get him-"  
  
His words cut Boromir deeply, for indeed, Faramir could discern why his brother behaved so fiercely. However, Faramir was not prepared for what happened next.   
  
The enraged Boromir reacted impulsively as the bitter truth in the statement struck him. It was true, he realized, that Faramir could most likely have shot the buck, possibly bringing him down, while he, the elder brother, forced to borrow another's weapon, would probably have missed even with the finest bow in Gondor. It just wasn't fair, and now, he'd lost any chance at felling the animal, thanks to his brother's yells! Without thinking, Boromir drew his sword, and smacked Faramir in the face as hard as he could with the metal hilt.  
  
Faramir's eyes widened, and he howled in pain as the blow connected. His hands immediately flew to his face, and he held them there. Tears began flowing from his eyes, and mingled with the blood that dripped from a gash across his cheek. Then, sobbing, he dropped his bow and scrambled away from his brother as swiftly as he could. 


	11. Two Types of Wounds

Once again, thanks for all the reviews :) I really appreciate them!  
  
*reads last chapter again* Poor Faramir, he doesn't deserve that... Yeah, Boromir has some *cough cough* issues, but so do most of the characters in LOTR.  
  
Anyway, because you're here to read the story, and not my babbling, I'll continue...  
  
  
____________________________________________________________  
  
  
Boromir stood in place, staring numbly at Faramir as he retreated quickly across the golden grass. The elder brother seemed incapable of thought. The blade of his sword was still clutched in his hand, and he hardly noticed as it slowly began digging into his palm.  
  
A voice spoke inside his head, his own voice, though it seemed completely separate from his mind. "Why did you do that?" it asked calmly, almost sinisterly, as if it already knew the answer to the question. "You drew your weapon against your brother for what? A stupid bow! You might have borrowed a bow from your father, if you had simply thought to ask!"  
  
Boromir attempted to reply. "I......I.......I....just.....I..." he stammered, his lips unable to form coherent words.  
  
"You don't really have an answer, do you?" At the back of his mind, his thoughts were echoed by the voice.  
  
"I....I....He deserved it!" yelled Boromir, as his mouth began to work again. "He should have loaned me the bow! I could have hit the buck! But, no, he had to have all the glory for himself!"  
  
However, deep in his heart, Boromir abruptly realized the foolishness of his own shouted words. His younger brother wasn't really driven by pride, or by glory, though he might pretend it occasionally. To Faramir, the buck had been something to hunt, but the happiness he got from the experience was the simple fact that he was using his bow, his own bow, to catch the animal. Even if he had been unsuccessful, it wouldn't have mattered much.  
  
"I can't believe what a fool I am!" exclaimed Boromir unhappily. "All I wanted was the glory of bringing back a trophy to show Father, and I just made a mess of things. The whole of Gondor would be ashamed to call me one of their own. And now..." Boromir winced as he spoke, as if the great reproach he felt was weighing down his body, "I don't even know where Faramir is, or if he's alright..."  
  
He looked down at the bow that lay near his feet. Boromir hesitated to pick it up, but he realized that his brother might never see it again if it was simply abandoned in the middle of the wide grass plains. The boy slowly, gingerly picked it up, as if he thought the mere touch of it might be painful.  
  
"Well," he mumbled, his eyes downcast, "I have the bow in this moment, but it suddenly doesn't seem worth it." He choked on a small sob. "I guess the only thing I really wish for now is my brother, and a chance to....apologize..."  
  
  
********  
  
Faramir stumbled through the grass, paying little attention to the direction in which he was heading. Tears ran down his bleeding face, and his lungs burned from the effort of his swift running, but still, he forced his legs to keep moving. There was only one goal implanted firmly in his inconsolable thoughts: escape.  
  
The younger brother ran quite a distance before he finally collapsed on to the ground, panting for breath and sweating. He reached up and cautiously felt the right side of his face. It was still bleeding, though not as much as before, and it was beginning to swell. Faramir drew his hand back quickly, to avoid the pain that shot through his head as his fingers brushed the gash.  
  
After a few moments, the boy's breathing slowed a bit, but he was unable to cease his sobbing. The wound on his face still ached, but even at his young age he understood it would eventually heal. He had received many cuts and scrapes in the past, after all. Instead, it was the wounds on his heart that he feared would never heal.  
  
"Why did he hit me?" Faramir cried, sitting up and hugging his knees to himself. "I didn't do anything to him!" He sobbed harder, and world blurred before his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, another thought, more bitter than anything he'd heard before, crossed his mirthless mind. "Maybe...maybe...maybe Boromir doesn't want a brother like me anymore," Faramir whispered. "Maybe he's mad because he wishes for a brother like Mergil or Beregond."  
  
Feeling as though he might drown in his own sorrow, the little boy slowly dragged himself to his feet. He pulled the short wooden sword from his belt, which he had mostly ignored until this point, and let it slip from his hands on to the soft ground. Then, he turned away, and walked with dragging feet, without a destination, through the tall yellow grass.  
  
  
********  
  
Boromir trotted in the direction that his younger brother had fled, studying the ground to see if he could find any trace of footsteps. He had heard many stories in which the Dúnedain of the South, who patrolled Ithilien, often tracked man or beast in this way. Unfortunately, he lacked the skills necessary for the task, and soon gave up the hunt for footprints.  
  
Instead, Boromir had to trust to hope. Perhaps if he continued in his current course, he might find his brother somewhere among the grass. Now and then, he stopped to shout.  
  
"Faramir! Faramir, where are you?!"  
  
Eventually, as time began to pass, Boromir became more desperate. He was traveling further from the city walls than he wished, and, if he wanted to return ere the setting of the sun, he needed to hurry. However, he did not give up in his search.  
  
"Faramir, where are you? Please come back! I didn't mean to hurt you, and I need to apologize!"  
  
Still, there was no sign of his younger brother. Boromir was filled with guilt as he imagined Faramir, somewhere alone on the Pelennor, perhaps nearby. Maybe - and the thought was painful to Boromir - maybe, he was indeed only a few feet away, hidden among the grass because he did not wish to see his elder brother again.  
  
In frustration, Boromir spun around quickly, as if he expected the younger boy to suddenly appear among the grass. He imagined Faramir silently standing nearby, still bleeding from the blow he'd been dealt, with distress in his soft gray eyes as he refused to acknowledged his brother's presence.  
  
The image chilled Boromir to the bone, and, despite the heat that still remained in the early evening air, he shivered slightly. "How could I be so cruel?" he said to himself. "What kind of a person am I? I deserve to be locked up for the rest of my life, alone and friendless, for that is how my brother must feel this very moment!"  
  
A sudden shadow crept over the boy. He unsuccessfully attempted to push the guilt out of his mind, and looked back towards the city. Startled, he noticed that a few hours had passed, and the sun was slowly beginning to sink in the sky.  
  
"It's getting late!" he thought, panicking slightly. "I have to return to the city, or Father will be furious, but I can't leave without Faramir. We were supposed to stay together!" Though he did not admit it, even inside his own mind, Boromir was terrified at the prospect of returning to Minas Tirith, alone, and being forced to admit that he'd been the sole cause of their separation. At the same time, he realized that it might be extremely difficult, even in the light of day to find a single boy in the vastness of the Pelennor, and as darkness fell it might prove impossible.  
  
In one last desperate attempt, Boromir called out again. "Faramir! Please come back! It's getting late, and we have to go home!"  
  
The shouts went unanswered. With a heavy heart, Boromir forced himself to turn in the direction of the city gate. He knew he needed help in the search for his brother, even if it meant having to face the wrath of an infuriated Denethor. Slowly, he took off his cloak, in the slim hope that Faramir might find it in case he needed warmth after the setting of the sun. Then, Boromir trotted back towards the city, still grasping both sword and bow loosely in his hands.  
  
"I'm sorry brother," he whispered silently, fighting the dread that seemed to engulf his heart and mind.  
  
  
********  
  
Though Boromir had called out many times during the day, Faramir was too far away to hear his cries, whether or not he would have heeded them. Even in his desperation to flee, he'd been careful to change directions a few times, in hopes that his brother would be unable to track him.  
  
Now Faramir sat upon the soft ground, pulling his cloak around his knees. He noticed the setting sun, and realized that it would soon be dark outside. The boy remembered his father's words, and despite his current unhappiness, he realized that he was supposed to be returning to Minas Tirith soon. Denethor would not be pleased if he was late.  
  
Sighing, Faramir pushed his dark fair off his face, wincing as his fingers made contact with his cheek. Then, he stood up slowly, glancing around in order to reorient himself. Unfortunately, he had gone down a bit of a slope in his wandering, and the city walls were hidden from his sight.  
  
Faramir panicked, forgetting momentarily the unhappiness that had previously engulfed him. He was completely lost, in the middle of the vast Pelennor! There were no landmarks nearby, nothing that he knew, for in his eight years he had rarely been outside the walls, and certainly not this far away. With wide eyes, he spun around a few times, as if he expected the city to suddenly appear within his sight. However, the little boy believed in the back of his mind that his actions were in vain.  
  
"What do I do now?" he asked himself, shivering in fear. "Where am I? I want to go home! I want Daddy! I want-" Faramir was about to wish for his brother, out of habit, but at the thought of Boromir, his heart grew unhappy. Dispair seemed to fill him, as he remembered the previous anger the older boy had shown towards him. His next words were no more than a whisper.  
  
"I may wish for Boromir, but he does not wish for me." At that, Faramir collapsed on the ground again, and curled up with his cloak around him, shaking in misery.  
  
  
********  
  
It was only moments before the last rays of the sun prepared to leave the sky. Boromir was now sprinting desperately towards the tower. He'd been much further from the city than he originally thought, and was unable to take any breaks to ensure that Denethor's curfew would be met. "Of course," Boromir muttered to himself as he ran on, panting, "I drove Faramir away, and that was far worse than anything else I could have done!"  
  
Finally, he burst through the last city gate, and bolted across the wide courtyard to the door of the great hall. Boromir shoved the door, and it slammed open, much to the surprise of those who were standing nearby. He skidded across the floor, slipped on the smooth stones under his feet, and lost his balance. Denethor saw him as he arrived.  
  
"Boromir?" he asked, slightly displeased as he watched the scene his elder son made as he waved his arms wildly to keep from falling. "I see you have returned, but I am a bit busy right now..." The Steward's gestured towards a tall, flaxen-haired man who was seated next to him.  
  
Boromir gasped in surprise, and momentarily forgot his worry. The man seated beside Denethor wore a crown upon his head. Though the boy had never laid eyes on him before, he realized that the crown, coupled with the light hair color could only mean one thing. Boromir had just burst into a discussion between his father and the King of Rohan! He reddened slightly.  
  
The Steward spoke again. "My son, now that you are back, could you kindly leave us in peace? As I have said, we are busy." Then, his eyes narrowed. He had expected to see his youngest enter the great hall, not far behind Boromir, but the door was silent. Denethor's voice grew hard as he suddenly noticed the bow carried by the boy, though there was worry too, written upon the man's face. "Where is Faramir?"  
  
Boromir found himself unable to meet his father's gaze, or even to reply at first. Guilt engulfed him. Not only was he forced to admit that he'd been cruel to his younger brother, but he had to say it in the presence of both his father and the King of Rohan! The unhappiness was almost too much to bear.  
  
Finally, he opened his mouth and a few shaky words came. "I....I....I don't know, Father. I...I struck him, and he ran away. I lost Fara-." His voice broke on the last word, and he was unable to finish. 


	12. Severed Happiness

*runs away from a group of fans brandishing torches to save Faramir* lol   
  
Boromir would never have been able to find Faramir in the dark, even if Faramir wanted to be found. I imagine the Pelennor to be huge; after all, there's a massive battle fought there! Anyway, Faramir won't be captured by Orcs or anything like that; the scouting reports received by Denethor that no threats were nearby were, indeed, accurate.  
  
As far as an Aragorn cameo, that's an idea I've actually been thinking about for awhile. Yes, I'm aware of the fact that he'd be pretty old, although due to his bloodline, he wouldn't look very old... Still debating whether or not to add him.  
  
This chapter is not happy, but eventually it will be better.  
  
One more thing: I know Faramir is supposed to be the pupil of Mithrandir, but I probably won't have that happen until Faramir is older.  
  
  
  
__________________________________________________________  
  
  
  
If Boromir never again saw the furious expression wrought upon Denethor's face, he felt it would be too soon. The boy had seen the Steward angered before, not the least after one of his forbidden expeditions outside the city wall, but now his father was beside himself.  
  
"I asked for the two of you to stay together, while outside the walls," Denethor began, his voice shaking in his fury. "Is that really such a difficult thing to ask? And now, you return to me, bearing Faramir's bow, and state that you have simply LOST him? Is that it?"  
  
The words were bitter. Boromir felt as though he were begin pierced by a knife, but he knew better than to remain silent. "That's it," he muttered, unable to look his father in the eye. "I'm sorry."  
  
Denethor stood up quickly, and murmured a few words of apology to the King of Rohan, still seated next to him. Then, he strode down the hall, towards Boromir, still wearing his infuriated expression upon his face. The Steward raised his hand suddenly as he approached, and for a fleeting moment, Boromir was afraid his father would strike him. Instead, Denethor grabbed the back of his son's shirt, ignoring the fact that the boy's cloak was gone, and dragged him outside.  
  
Here he halted for a moment, though he did not release his grip. "Where did you last see your brother?" the Steward asked in a low, but dangerous voice.   
  
Boromir pointed in the general direction in which he had come, though in truth he had no idea if Faramir was even close to the city anymore.  
  
"Very well then," replied Denethor, taking note of the direction in which his son pointed. "I will go out there, aided by some others, and we will find your brother. DO NOT leave the area around the tower! When I return, and there is sufficient time, you will be summoned. Don't think that I am finished with you, Boromir!" The Steward released his grip on the boy, and stormed off towards the quarters where many of the city guards relaxed while off duty.  
  
Boromir remained standing where he was as his father left. The night was settling around the city of Minas Tirith, but very few stars were visible yet in the darkening sky. Though it was summer, sheer unhappiness sent chills through the boy's body.   
  
"Where are you, Faramir?" he whispered towards one of the stars he saw in the night sky. "What have I done? Father is furious, yet that will eventually pass. But will you ever forgive me?"  
  
There was only silence.  
  
Suddenly, the boy's upward glance fell upon the great white tower, which he had climbed many times before, in both happiness and dispair. Boromir sighed, knowing it was a very long way up winding steps, but he could not bring himself to go back inside, not while Faramir still wandered around on his own in the night. He made up his mind to climb to the top.  
  
  
********  
  
Faramir remained curled up on the ground. He felt as though the entire world had simply abandoned him, to face the vast, emptiness of the land alone. His cloak was wrapped tightly around his body, though he was beginning to feel the chill of the night air settle upon him. It was quite dark, and few stars were visible in the sky.  
  
The young boy eventually sat up, shaking. He did not like the idea of wandering around in the black night air, but he thought a short walk might relieve him of a little sorrow, and perhaps bring him again within sight of Minas Tirith. Faramir got to his feet, rewrapped his cloak around himself, and, with a heavy heart, plodded through the grass. His sad eyes drifted across the plains, yet, he saw nothing. There was no sign of the white city, or even the great tower.  
  
"Where am I?" Faramir cried out in his frustration. "I can hardly see anything; it's so dark. I must not be near the city, where there are always lights shining!" His shoulders slumped in weariness; yet he found himself unable to fall back towards the grass. Instead, Faramir continued walking, as the wide grass plains grew more and more unfriendly to the eye.  
  
A hour slowly crept by. Faramir now stumbled constantly as he wandered, for the combination of exhaustion and unhappiness was slowly sapping away at his strength. In his mind, he felt as though there was no hope left in the world as thoughts of dispair washed over him like waves upon the ocean. He was completely lost. His prize bow was no longer in his pocession. His father was most likely somewhere deep within the city. Boromir hated him.  
  
This last thought was easily the most painful of all, for it brought immediate tears to Faramir's eyes, and seemed to drain the last remnants of mirth from his inconsolable heart.  
  
  
  
********  
  
  
Denethor had gathered together around a dozen of the off-duty tower guards, all bearing brightly lit torches. Now he stood with them, in the Pelennor directly in front of the first city gate, attempting to pierce the dark air with his keen gaze. He soon realized that even the burning torches and faint light of a few stars would not be enough to help him find his younger son, and instead, he began to divide up his men.  
  
"Search the entire area if you must, in every hollow, and under every blade of grass. We must seek out Faramir and find him!"  
  
The Steward's men all nodded in agreement, then spread out swiftly across the plains. Denethor watched them go, then quickly went off into the darkness.  
  
  
********  
  
Faramir suddenly heard a heavy sound in the grass. He temporarily forgot his dispair, and turned in surprise. The boy had not expected anyone else to be wandering around during the night.  
  
Thoughts raced through his head. Perhaps....perhaps the feet that approached were not friendly. Though he knew no Orcs had been spotted in the area for a long while, fear took over his mind. Faramir had visions of a vile creature pursuing him through the grass, as he attempted to flee.   
  
Fortunately, Faramir soon noticed that the footsteps were those of a tall man, bearing a torch. A familiar man. He gasped in surprise.  
  
"Daddy!" he sobbed.  
  
Denethor heard the sound of the voice, and held out his torch in the direction from whence it came. "Faramir?" he shouted in reply.  
  
"Daddy!"  
  
The Steward saw the small shape of his son run towards him, stumbling often in the grass. Then, suddenly, Faramir collapsed a few feet in front of him, crying in exhaustion.  
  
Denethor ran to him. He reached the fallen boy, and carefully scooped him out of the grass. Faramir continued to sob.  
"Faramir, it is all right now," whispered Denethor, hugging his younger son. "You have been lost, but now you are safe, and will soon be home. There, you may sleep in your own bed once again." He paused for a moment, but soon realized that Faramir's sobs did not appear to lessen. "What ails you, my son," he asked, fairly concerned. "You are now safe, yet your unhappiness shines clear through."  
  
Faramir became quiet for a moment, before speaking. "Daddy?" he asked in a small, tearful voice, barely above a whisper. "Do you love me?"  
  
This was probably the last thing the Steward expected to hear from his son. "Of course," he replied, startled at first, though soon his voice returned to its usual firmness. "Even if you do foolish things in your life, you will always have my love. Why do you ask such things?"  
  
Faramir did not answer at first. Then, tears spilled once again from his eyes as a few soft words emitted from his mouth.  
  
"Because Boromir does not." 


	13. Denethor's Anger, Faramir's Pain

Notes: I am updating whenever I can! But I have a lot of stuff going on right now, and sometimes it is very difficult.  
  
*Still pondering idea of Aragorn cameo....  
  
*Denethor is not shown as evil in this story, because I don't see him as being evil (especially while Faramir is younger). I think in the book LOTR he resents the fact that his younger son would rather look to Gandalf (Mithrandir) for advice instead of himself, and he is stricken with grief enough that he sometimes takes it out on Faramir. But, I agree with Gandalf in ROTK: Denethor does love Faramir, and he "will remember it ere the end."  
Now, back to our story....  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
Boromir was standing at the top of the white tower, attempting to peer through the suffocating darkness, when he suddenly saw a small orange light moving towards the first gate. He could not see the figure that carried it, but he realized one of the men sent out to find Faramir had either accomplished the goal, or else..... He shut any other possible thoughts out of his mind. Of course they must have found him. They must.  
  
The boy knew it might be awhile before the figure finally emerged through the seventh and final city gate, leading to the tower, but he hurtled towards the stairs leading to the ground. Boromir felt that he had to greet his brother when he arrived, to apologize. As he half-leapt down the steps, he began running possible apologies through his mind.  
  
"Faramir," he began, muttering outloud to himself, "I'm very sorry I hit you. I shouldn't have done that...." Boromir cut himself off, realizing how true his words really were. What purpose did he have striking out at his brother, or anyone else for that matter, without reason? A few tears formed in his eyes, and he rubbed them quickly away, continuing his descent.  
  
********  
  
Denethor was shocked by the words his son had muttered. He had never seen brothers get along as well as Boromir and Faramir, yet Faramir claimed Boromir did not love him? The Steward's gray eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced at his younger son, then hardened.  
  
In his relief of finding his son, he had not paid much attention to the cut across his face. Now, the words of Boromir went through his mind: "I struck him." Denethor stopped momentarily to get a better look at Faramir's face.  
  
His youngest son had a deep gash that ran down his cheek. Dried blood was caked on the side of his face, and the cut still bled a little. Denethor realized this must have been the work of Boromir, but he could not imagine his elder son striking out against his brother in such a way. No wonder Faramir seemed so ill at ease. The Steward decided to deal with the wound back at the tower, for Faramir was shaking slightly, and needed to be taken somewhere warmer.  
  
Denethor turned towards the city gate, carrying Faramir in his arms, and slowly walked back to the city. He never made a response to his younger son's previous statement about Boromir, for he knew not how to answer.  
  
Upon reaching the gate, the Steward had the guards light one of the great beacons, allowing the bright orange light to summoned his men back to Minas Tirith. He instructed the guards to inform the searchers that Faramir had been found, and then took his son back to the white tower at the tip of the city.  
  
********  
  
Boromir was standing quietly next to the seventh gate when Denethor emerged, carrying Faramir. He wanted to run forward, to be certain that his brother truly was all right, but the steely glance he received from the Steward rooted him to the spot. He could only watch as Denethor walked quickly past, his voice unable to emerge.  
  
Suddenly, his feet began to move again, almost automatically. Boromir dragged himself after his father and brother, slipping into the great hall a little ways behind them. He saw Denethor carry Faramir into the room the boys shared, and followed him until he stood directly outside the door. The boy could not bring himself to go any further.  
  
Inside the room, Denethor set his younger son on his bed, and spoke to him, a soft tone in his normally firm voice. "You are alright now, Faramir," the Steward said quietly. He removed Faramir's cloak, and wrapped him in a blanket. "Doubtless your slight.....adventure was a bit unnerving, but now you are back in your own home."  
  
Faramir still shook slightly, though he was no longer cold. The previous anger of his brother still hung heavily on his mind.  
  
Denethor noticed this immediately, yet he was unsure if mentioning Boromir would ease Faramir's mind, or simply serve to heighten his unhappiness. He decided to remain silent about the matter, at least for now, and turned his thoughts towards treating the psychical wound present on his son's face. The Steward walked over to the doorway, and, at the moment ignoring Boromir, he called for a healer to bring him some herbs, warm water, and clothes. Then, upon receiving these items, he returned to where Faramir was sitting upon his bed.  
  
"Now we are going to take care of the scratch on your face," murmured Denethor, taking one of the herbs and mixing it in some water. He soaked a small piece of cloth in the mixture. "This will only sting a little bit." The Steward gently touched the cloth to the cut.  
  
Faramir squirmed as the herb mixture entered the gash across his face. The painful sting seemed to spread throughout his body, and he suddenly cried out.  
  
Denethor grabbed his son's shoulder firmly, though not roughly, in an effort to make him hold still. "I am sorry if it hurts, Faramir, but it has to be cleaned. You don't want it to be infected."  
  
Faramir still squirmed slightly, but, realizing the truth in Denethor's words, did not cry out again. Within a few moments, the dried blood had been removed from his face, and the gash no longer felt quite so painful.  
  
The Steward studied the cut for a moment, silently. It would heal eventually, he realized, probably without infection. However, it angered him when he saw that the size and depth of the wound. It had not been dealt simply by a fist, like the occasional, usually harmless blows exchanged by a couple of boys during a small skirmish. It had been cruelly dispensed by a much heavier object. Denethor found it difficult to disguise his fury at the idea of Boromir, whom he normally thought quite highly of, sinking to the disgusting level of hitting a completely innocent person.  
  
Suddenly, he realized that Faramir was staring at him wide eyed. "Are you angry with me, Daddy?" he inquired, nervously, detecting the turmoil in the Steward's thoughts.  
  
Denethor silently admonished himself for frightening his son. "Of course not," he murmured, attempting to keep his voice calm and comforting. He carefully returned to his task of caring for Faramir, and slowly bandaged his face. Then, he tucked Faramir into his bed, telling him that he needed to rest a little, and quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.  
  
Only now did the Steward turn his gaze upon Boromir, who still stood next to the door, rooted in place. Denethor's icy glare seemed to pierce the boy's heart, and he shivered involuntarily despite himself.  
  
"I must go speak with King Theoden, my guest." Denethor began. "But I shall be back momentarily. You will go to the vacant room adjacent to the kitchen, and wait for me there. Understand?" His voice was harsh.  
  
Boromir nodded mutely, as Denethor strode past him.  
  
********  
  
No more than ten minutes passed before the Steward entered the vacant room he had described. Boromir, who had temporarily sat upon a chair inside, sprang to his feet as his father entered. Faramir's bow, which he had unconsciously been holding, suddenly clattered to the stone floor, but the boy could not bring himself to pick it up.  
  
Denethor closed the strong wooden door behind him before turning towards his son. "I want to know everything that happened today outside," he demanded in a hard voice. "Begin at the point where you left the great gate bordering on the plains."  
  
Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but for a moment, he said nothing. Then, he slowly, haltingly began to describe the days events. It wasn't that difficult simply speaking about the hunt the brothers had engaged in before lunch. However, when he got to the part about the fine buck they'd spotted in the golden grass, he stopped, unable to continue.  
  
The Steward spoke. "So, you saw a buck," he prompted. "That is not too unusual. Yet, I can see you desire to avoid speaking of the events after that. This wish shall not be granted, and you are to continue!"  
  
The elder son looked at the ground. He described the scene in which he and Faramir had been arguing about the bow, growing red with shame. However, he attempted to leave out the part in which he had struck Faramir with the hilt of his sword, saying instead that his younger brother had simply run away.  
  
Denethor's eyes narrowed, and his voice grew angry. "So, you say you simply took your brother's bow, which in itself is a disgusting deed. Yet, upon greeting me earlier, you stated that you had hit Faramir. Or do you now deny it? Will you say that a wayward blade of grass gave your brother the wound he now bears? Speak truthfully, for you know men of Gondor are not easily mislead!"  
  
"I....I...I.....I grew angry, Father, and I....hit him," Boromir mumbled, almost inaudibly, staring at the floor.  
  
"With what means? Surely your fist would leave a bruise, but not a deep gash."  
  
"I....I....I grabbed my sword, and struck him with the hilt."  
  
Denethor's suspicion had been confirmed, and though his anger grew with the words, he replied with a dangerously calm voice. "It is as I believed. And now I have for you one last question; one that you are to think about as you spend the next month confined to the tower. Why would the future steward EVER purposely injure an innocent person? Surely you do not view yourself to be akin to the cruel men of Harad, yet you act exactly like one. Normally, you are an admirable son, one that any father might dream about, but at this moment I am ashamed to claim any tie to you." He paused, then continued. "You will stay in this room for the night, with only the clothes you now wear for bedding, for indeed you nearly allowed Faramir that exact fate today! Do not leave ere I give you permission."  
  
With that, Denethor picked up the bow that lay upon the stone floor, and relieved Boromir of his sword. Then, he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. His elder son was left alone in the room.  
  
********  
  
The night passed slowly for both brothers, for Faramir had nightmares of an evil figure, disguised as his brother, chasing him throughout an endless field of grass. In another room, Boromir lay upon the uncomfortable stone floor, seeing haunting visions of unhappiness on the face of his younger brother. He thought he might never be able to sleep again.  
  
Eventually, an orange dawn broke over the city of Minas Tirith. Boromir stood at a small window, yawning and staring outside. The stunning view came close to matching that from the tip of the tower, yet it did nothing to ease the boy's mirthless heart. He mourned his actions from the previous day, and felt torment in his heart, for he had not yet had any chance to apologize.  
  
Suddenly, the door swung open, and Boromir started. He expected to see the angry face of his father again, but it was only a servant bearing fresh clothes who greeted him. "The Lord Denethor expects you now at the breakfast table," he stated calmly. "You are to put on these clean garments," he gestured to the clothes, "and join him." With that, the servant smoothly lay down the outfit, and swiftly exited.  
  
Boromir quickly dressed. He did not see his cloak among the items, and realized that it probably still lay somewhere in the Pelennor. "And it did not even serve any useful purpose," he sighed.  
  
Soon, he straighten himself up, and leaving the small room behind, he walked to the kitchen.  
  
********  
  
A cold feeling filled Boromir when he saw those seated at the table. In fine chairs carefully set before plates laden with foods, Denethor and the King of Rohan were seated. Nearby, sat Faramir, but it was not the Faramir whom Boromir knew so well.  
  
The bandage across one side of his face was certainly not normal, and, in his head, Boromir cursed himself silently for his actions. However, after taking a second glance at his younger brother, he realized why he looked so different.  
  
Faramir's normally bright, thoughtful eyes now appeared dull and grim. His face was paler than usual, and he seemed to be mechanically eating the food set forth in front of him. When Boromir sat down in his usual seat nearby, he saw Faramir flinch.  
  
"He's afraid of me now," Boromir thought to himself, shocked. "And all over a stupid bow! What have I done?" 


	14. The Wisdom of Beregond

Thanks for the reviews, as usual. I will be gone for about 4 days, so I won't be able to update until I return.  
  
-KitKat: Thanks :) I like Denethor in this too -Saera: Yep, I am definitely writing some more. -AzNnEgGrOePnOi: I'll keep going. Sorry for the wait; after next chapter, I'll try to update more quickly. -Sammy: Poor Faramir, I agree. -Agador-of-the-Woods: Poor Boromir too! Sheesh, sometimes he lets his emotions rule his thinking... -A.Katz Omnipotent King: Thanks, and please update your parody story too! I'd love to read more. -Shlee Verde: Don't worry, Boromir and Faramir can't be separated from each other FOREVER.... and thanks for your review.  
  
Now, before Lurtz shoots me with Uruk-hai arrows (*sniff* poor Boromir *sniff*), I shall continue the story...  
  
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As the days slowly crawled by, the psychical wound on Faramir's face began to heal; however, he seemed to grow more and more unhappy. He avoided Boromir at all costs, waking up in the morning before his brother, and, for the most part, managed to stay completely out of his sight. Faramir spent some time in his usual studies, but his heart was not in any of his work, and he passed long hours wandering aimlessly around the city streets alone.  
  
On one of his trips through Minas Tirith, perhaps a week after being lost in the Pelannor, he was spotted by Beregond. "Hey, Faramir!" the older boy shouted from full a block away. "Where have you and Boromir been lately? The sun has risen and set many times since we last talked." He quickly ran over to greet him.  
  
Faramir met his gaze, but remained silent. Normally, he would have been pleased to see the older boy, but lately, nothing seemed capable of bringing a smile to his downcast face.  
  
Beregond was used to Faramir's usual silence, but he noted the difference in his expression. Glancing around, the older boy immediately saw that Faramir was alone.  
  
"Where is Boromir?" he asked, puzzled. It was rare indeed for the brothers to be separated, for even if one was ill, the other usually remained with him, and they did not wander the city streets alone.  
  
"He's in the tower," mumbled Faramir, scowling slightly. He was reluctant to divulge any further information.  
  
"What happened to him? How come he's not here?" Beregond saw the unhappiness clearly upon Faramir's face, but he still pressed him with questions, for his curiosity had to be satisfied. The older boy saw that something was not normal.  
  
"He's being punished."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because he displeased Father."  
  
Beregond became slightly annoyed. He did not find Faramir's response to be satisfactory, after all, Boromir had to have done SOMETHING to "displease" Denethor, as the younger boy put it. Beregond decided that he must somehow be missing out on an interesting story; for he'd seen both brothers get in trouble under some very entertaining circumstances in the past.  
  
"Aw, come on," Beregond implored. "What did Boromir do? Did he take the servants' undergarments and hang them from the top of the white tower? Did he break a priceless statue practicing archery inside the hall (for he has horrible aim, does he not)? Come on, tell me, or I shall challenge you to a sword fight!" The last comment was made as a jest, partly to cheer up the obviously unhappy Faramir, and partly to urge him to complete his story. Unfortunately, Faramir grew wide-eyed when he saw Beregond unsheath his sword and point it at Faramir's face.  
  
Beregond lowered his weapon suddenly upon seeing the fear written across the other boy's face, though he misinterpreted the reason for his reaction. "Ah, an understanding has now reached me," Beregond laughed. "You and Boromir had a mock sword fight in which you recieved that cut upon your cheek. Now you are avoiding him in your shame! Come on, don't look so down about such a trivial matter! Why not simply challenge him to an archery competition later; you know he can't hold a candle to you!"  
  
Faramir stared at the ground, stubbornly refusing to let fall the tears that had gathered in his eyes.  
  
His friend, however, had keen eyes, and suddenly changed the tone in his voice upon noticing the smaller boy's pained expression. He realized that something must be seriously astray for Faramir to act in such a manner. Normally Denethor's younger son looked stern and bright eyed, but now he hardly seemed to notice the many details of the world around, lost amongst the darkness of depression.  
  
"What's the matter?" Beregond asked quietly. He searched his mind for a possible explanation, attempting to discover what distressing event could possibly be the cause, and eventually settling on a thought. "Is something wrong with Boromir?"  
  
Faramir sighed, almost inaudibly. "No, there's nothing wrong with him. He is being punnished, like I said."  
  
Beregond heard the sigh, realizing that he had struck a nerve somewhere in the younger boy. "Are you sure nothing is wrong?" he continued/  
  
Faramir bit his lip slightly, wondering if he could trust the other boy enough to share his feelings. Normally he would have spoken of such things only to Boromir, but now that he seemed set against him.... And Bergond was a decent person, after all.... He was much kinder than Mergil, or most of the other boys that hung around Minas Tirith....  
  
The younger boy thought for a moment, eventually giving in to his emotions. He found that he could no longer wade around in his own unhappiness, in his own lonliness forever.  
  
"Boromir isn't all right," Faramir mumbled. "He has a father whom he loves, but a brother he hates."  
  
Beregond was startled. He'd been expecting to hear the story of some horrible illness or injury, and the bluntness of Faramir's comments caught him completely off his guard. "What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled. "Surely Boromir has no such feelings towards you, nor you towards him. What would ever occur to change that?"  
  
Faramir finally ended up telling the other boy the story of their journey into the Pelannor, the buck, and the sudden rage of Boromir. At that point, he paused, gripping his bow in one hand, and dashing away tears from his eyes with the other. Beregond whistled softly.  
  
"So that is why you have not been around lately. I understand now. But know this, Faramir, I have spoken with your brother many a time, and Boromir would never hate you under any circumstances. He was just acting very rashly, as is his way sometimes, and allowed his pride to overrule his judgements."  
  
"But why did he act that way?" Faramir mumbled.  
  
Beregond sighed. "He must have been so disappointed when the buck escaped, that he struck out against the closest person at hand." The older boy paused before continuing. "But you must eventually forgive him for this fault. A fault it was, indeed, but he surely cares about you more than any other person in Middle-Earth."  
  
Though Faramir still felt sad, he seemed to sense the wisdom in the other boy's words. His gaze left the ground, and for the first time that week his eyes appeared hopeful. "Maybe you are right..." he said, thoughtfully.  
  
Beregond laughed, pleased with his success at cheering up the other boy, and decided to take it a little further. "Of course I'm right," he stated in a mock-serious voice, mimicking the usual stern look that he'd seen Denethor wear. "I am the Steward, and my opinions are good ones."  
  
Faramir gave a slight grin.  
  
"Come on!" Beregond said, seizing the opportunity to leave Faramir's misery behind. "Let's go talk to the tower guards, and see if any interesting people have come to Minas Tirith lately. You don't really want to stay around here all day, now do you? I daresay you've come quite well aquainted with that piece of the road you've been staring at for awhile." He grabbed Faramir's cloak, and pulled him in the direction of the first city gate.  
  
********  
  
Boromir thought he could not possibly be more bored. He was stuck in the tower, with absolutely nothing to do, for his sword had been taken away, and there were few people willing to take a few minutes of leisure to speak with the boy.  
  
"I wish there was something to do!" he groaned in his frustration. "Certainly I could go to my room and study, but how can I expect that to entertain me? It doesn't hold my interest for more than an hour at a time under normal circumstances! Why must I stay in here?"  
  
Suddenly, he froze, remembering. "Alas!" he cried. "I am here because of cruel actions, and I suppose I am well-deserving of such a punishment. But how am I ever to apologize to Faramir? He refuses to go near me!"  
  
Boromir paused, recalling the pained expression that seemed to dominate Faramir's face as of late. He fell to his knees in anguish. "I can't believe I was so rash! And so harsh! I nearly killed the spirit of my brother, my best friend..." His voice trailed off slightly. "How can I possibly make him understand that it was a mistake! I never intended such a hurt upon him!"  
  
His grey eyes moved swiftly across the room, and fell upon a heavy, decorative staff sitting next to a wooden table. A faint idea occurred in his mind.  
  
********  
  
Faramir and Beregond spent several hours simply chatting with a few of the tower guards. Normally, the men would never have allowed such a distraction, but a few recognized the Steward's son, and sought to please him. They also knew that the danger of any attack was almost zero, for scouts had not reported any threats for miles around. Thus, Beregond and Faramir were entertained with various stories.  
  
One of the men, called Retegor (who spoke with Denethor occasionally) told the boys about King of Rohan, who was currently visiting the Steward. "He came upon a great white horse," the man explained, "for the Men of Rohan are often called the horse-lords. He had several fine attendents with him, and some gifts for the Steward." Beregond and Faramir were fancinated as he started speaking about Rohan, and Faramir apparently forgot his previous unhappiness as he listened.  
  
As Retegor completed his tale, one of the scouts from Gondor suddenly rode up. Unlike the Men of Rohan, those of Gondor were not quite as well- aquainted with horses, though they were used by scouts, and many who lived outside the city. The man who approached sat upon a sturdy looking bay creature, with a somewhat worn saddle. However, it was not the horse, but the item the scout carried that caught Faramir's attention.  
  
The scout held in one hand a cloak, smaller than that of an adult, bearing a brooch with the white tree of Gondor engraved upon it. Faramir recognized it at once. "That's Boromir's," he said, puzzled. He did not know about the cloak Boromir had left upon the Pelannor.  
  
Retegor took the cloak and examined it. "Indeed it is from the Steward's own household, and the size seems to match." He turned to the scout. "How did you come upon it?" he asked.  
  
"It lay upon the grass," answered the man, still upon his horse. "Though I think it must have been purposely left there, abandoned so that one might find it. I think it did not merely drop off the shoulders of a tired boy. See, the brooch is still intact, and unscathed."  
  
Retegor nodded. "Very well," he replied. "I shall have it taken to the Steward at once." He dismissed the scout, who rode away.  
  
Faramir found himself presented with the cloak. "It is getting late, Lord Faramir," began Retegor, "and I daresay your father will soon begin to search for you. It would be wise of you to return home. Perhaps you could take this with you?" Faramir nodded. "Very well then. I shall see you again." With that, Retegor and the other guards returned to their duties, wating for the time when they would be relieved.  
  
The two boys walked back towards there respective homes, Faramir carefully holding the cloak. The scouts' words replayed in his mind: "... so that one might find it." An understanding seemed to dawn upon his face.  
  
Beregond noted it immediately. "You see, it is as I have said," he stated. "Boromir must have left it upon the Pelannor, knowing you might need protection from the cold. It was only a small chance that you might find it, and in fact you did not, but he was still thinking about you. Do you not now see that he does care about you, his brother?"  
  
Faramir nodded. "You are right," he replied, his eyes finally losing the last traces of their previously haunted look. "I guess I do forgive him..."  
  
********  
  
Boromir was waiting in the his room, sitting upon his bed with the staff, when Faramir entered. For a moment, the younger boy hesitated, uncertain whether he should proceed, or simply turn around. However, Boromir's words caused him to pause.  
  
"Faramir," the older boy began, "there is something I need to tell you, to relieve myself of the horrible burden that lays across my mind."  
  
Faramir paused, noting the staff in his brother's hands. His eyes widened, and he backed away slightly.  
  
"Wait," pleaded Boromir, in a tone of voice that had never been there before. "Let me finish!" Faramir stopped, and he continued. "I have caused great pain to you, and to me as well, by striking out with my sword. I am sorry to have been the reason for this, and for my actions, I have paid dearly. However, I feel that things cannot be right between us, unless we share such sufferings together. Here," he said, holding out the staff, "if you might use this staff against me, to deal me the same blow that I did towards you, at least I might understand how you had to feel." His eyes were downcast as he finished.  
  
Faramir refuse the staff offered to him. "No," he said firmly. "I would not copy your actions just so you might suffer. But, know this: you are forgiven." He sobbed slightly as he motioned towards the cloak he now wore. Boromir's cloak. "Thank you for still caring, my brother." 


	15. A Stranger from Harad

-Agador-of-the-Woods: I'm glad Boromir apologized too...he and Faramir should get along fairly well for awhile. -Caroly: There's not a ton about Beregond in LOTR; however, he does rescue Faramir in the book, so I thought his character for last chapter would be fairly appropriate. -Sammy: I'm writing more, don't worry. -A.Katz Omnipotent King: Mischief? Boromir and Faramir? Nah.....hehehehe -AzNnEgGrOePnOi: Thanks for reviewing my story too.  
  
Thanks for the reviews!  
  
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The next few months passed by rather uneventfully for Boromir and Faramir (unless you count the celebration held to honor the King of Rohan before his departure from the city). Boromir had another birthday, his 13th, and he and Faramir continued their usual wanderings in Minas Tirith. However, they also spent a lot of time in the tower, attending to their studies (to the dismay of Boromir in particular)...  
  
It was a perfectly normal fall day in the great hall. Boromir and Faramir had just finished their daily studies, and were practicing their sword fighting skills against one another. They were creating quite a racket, but Denethor was outside visiting with some of his advisors, for the weather was pleasant enough, and no one else was around to heed the noises the two boys created.  
  
Boromir was wielding his sword with great precision, thoroughly enjoying the rapid clinking sounds he made each time he connected with Faramir's crude chain mail shirt, though his blows were not hard, and did little more than cause a slight sting. "Take that!" he cried victoriously, as he struck yet again.  
  
Faramir gripped his small wooden sword tightly, attempting to fend off his older brother's blows. He knew he was at a great disadvantage, facing a considerably stronger opponent, though he wished just once that he could land a successful attack on Boromir. His eyes narrowed in his concentration.  
  
Suddenly, Faramir lunged forward, pointing his sword out in front of him. "I've got you now, Boromir!" he laughed victoriously. He was just inches from striking the chain mail worn by his brother. However, he never got any closer.  
  
The next thing Faramir realized was that he was lying on his back, staring up at the high stone ceiling of the great hall. He groaned, not from pain, but frustration. His brother had managed to defeat him again.  
  
Boromir leaned over Faramir. "Sorry, little brother," he smirked triumphantly. "Having an enjoyable time staring at the ceiling? You will get a better look if you chose to fight me again."  
  
Faramir scowled slightly as Boromir pulled him back to his feet. "You may have won again, Boromir, but soon I'll be able to defeat you," stated Faramir, staring up defiantly into his older brother's face.  
  
"Maybe, but probably not," teased Boromir, "but don't worry! Tomorrow perhaps we will find Mergil. I'm sure you could send him a powerful message, for your swordsmanship skills are much improved!" He laughed at the thought of Mergil laying on his back, defeated. "Never mind; Father will return soon, and I don't think he will be pleased to listen to our swordplay as he attends to his business!"  
  
Faramir nodded, sheathed his sword, and slowly pulled off the chain mail he wore. Boromir followed suit.  
  
********  
  
Only minutes after the two boys carefully put away their weapons, the door of the great hall of the tower suddenly swung open. Boromir and Faramir, who had just settled down to relax, jumped to their feet, in anticipation of their father. However, they watched, surprised, as Denethor entered with another man, a dark man dressed in strange clothing.  
  
The Steward introduced the man to his two sons, though he had a slightly suspicious glint in his eyes. "Boromir, Faramir," he said, gesturing to them with a hand, "this is Bardok, a man from Harad." There was an edge to his voice as he said the name of the man's country.  
  
Boromir and Faramir courteously replied, as was the custom, though the latter seemed to share Denethor's suspicion of Bardok. Harad had been at peace for awhile with Gondor; yet lately, evil rumors had been spreading among Minas Tirith about the country, and a possible alliance with the Orcs.  
  
After the brief introduction, Denethor motioned for Boromir, Faramir, and Bardok to accompany him to the dining area. "After all," he stated calmly, glancing at Bardok, "there we may discuss certain matters brought up earlier in more detail."  
  
Boromir did not seem too excited about the prospect of listening to a long conversation between his father and the other man during dinner, though he did not show his feelings. If Faramir had an opinion on the matter, he kept it well hidden, simply following the others.  
  
Apparently, the servants had received word of the guest, for four seats had been arranged for dinners, with steaming food already set out upon them. Denethor took his usual spot at the head of the table, and his sons sat on either side. Bardok settled into the remaining seat, appearing slightly nervous, as though he did not particularly wish to inform the Steward about his country.  
  
Denethor noticed the uneasiness of his guest; though he forsook his usual noble manner in favor of impatience. "Now is the time for us to continue our conversation, Bardok," he stated firmly, giving the strange man an appraising glance. The Steward nodded towards Boromir and Faramir, then added, "They shall not interrupt any part of your speech."  
  
Bardok shifted in his chair before speaking, in a raspy voice. "It has come to the attention of those in my country, that Minas Tirith believes ill of us. Your scouts mutter news about this so-called alliance with Orcs. Know this, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, we have not had such actions with the foul Orcs, or any others related to Mordor, for many years." As he finished, Bardok lowered his gaze, as though unable to maintain eye contact.  
  
Boromir appeared to be paying little attention to the conversation, only occasionally looking away from his plate, where the food was rapidly disappearing. Faramir, likewise, was concentrating on eating, not talking, although he stiffened at the sound of the strange visitor's voice. He seemed to sense some ill of him, probably due to his country of origin.  
  
The Steward was silent for a moment after listening to Bardok, thinking deeply about how to react to this guest. Eventually he spoke in a strangely cordial voice, yet his gray eyes did not lose their hardness. "So, the Men of Harad pledge that they are not allied with Orcs? That they remain friendly towards, or at least indifferent towards Gondor? This news is welcome indeed, though I still remain somewhat doubtful."  
  
A gleam flashed briefly across Bardok's face. "Aye, Lord of Gondor," he stated, "it is truthful. In fact, I even have a gift from the Men of Harad, as further proof that we desire nothing more than continued peace." He drew a small drinking flask from under his robes. Denethor's eyes narrowed, but he soon relaxed as Bardok took a few sips from the flask before carefully handing it to the Steward. "You see," Bardok continued, "we offer a taste of one of our finest drinks to you. And, as you have observed, I drank first, to show that no foul play is intended."  
  
Denethor seemed to relax then, and took a small sip from the flask. "You are right, Bardok," he admitted after a moment. "The drink is certainly of superior quality. However, I must still have time to ponder over your words. You may stay here in the hall tonight; someone will escort you to a room, and we shall speak again in the morning."  
  
The two Men then exchanged some casual conversation, though Denethor still maintained the air of a steward. Boromir and Faramir grew increasingly bored, and the former suddenly sighed. It was not loud, but audible to the ears of Denethor.  
  
"Boromir." Denethor reproached him firmly, but excused both his sons from the table with a wave of his hand. They left quickly, eager to be free from the dinner conversation, which had become, in their eyes, quite dull.  
  
In the hall, Boromir turned towards Faramir, saying, "That was certainly boring! I could have been practicing some sword fighting, in the time we sat there after eating." He yawned, then chuckled a little. "See, it is still early evening, and I am nearly asleep from their talking."  
  
Faramir nodded, but seemed to be lost in thought. Eventually, he looked up at Boromir. "I don't trust Bardok," he said flatly.  
  
"Why not? I'll admit he's a little strange, and Father seemed opposed to him at first, but he appears mostly harmless."  
  
"It's just a feeling," muttered Faramir.  
  
"I know," teased Boromir. "Your mind is simply playing tricks on you in your sleepiness. Perhaps it was all that sword fighting earlier. Come on! Rest a little if you want. Tomorrow we can get up early, and hunt down Mergil." He walked into his room, with Faramir following behind him.  
  
********  
  
In the middle of the night, not long after the setting of the moon, Boromir suddenly awoke. His throat was slightly dry, and he had the urge to hunt down a drink of cool water. "It must have been the garlic in the food last night," he thought to himself, smirking slightly. "That was the only interesting part of the entire dinner." Yawning, Boromir crawled out of bed, and wandered out of the room, towards the kitchen.  
  
As he reached the kitchen, he halted suddenly. Somewhere behind him, there was a strange noise, as though someone else was awake. Normally, this was not unusual, for guards did inhabit the tower by night. However, they generally wore hard boots, and made a soft, but distinct clunk as they paced about. This person seemed to be walking upon bare feet.  
  
Within seconds, the sound ceased. Boromir glanced about, then shook his head. "I must be imagining things," he thought to himself, "or perhaps it's simply Father. He sometimes wakes up at night."  
  
Turning back to the kitchen, Boromir continued his search for water.  
  
********  
  
Faramir heard his brother leave the room, though he pretended to be asleep. He vaguely wondered why he chose this particular hour for a stroll around the hall, but soon assumed he had left for either a midnight snack, or perhaps to take care of business. Faramir didn't care either way, for he was eagerly anticipating the following morning, when he might have the change to defeat Mergil in a sword fight.  
  
The young boy smiled. Maybe he could not beat Boromir, but Mergil was a little younger. At any rate, he could probably put up a good fight against him.  
  
Suddenly, a figure entered the room. Boromir must have returned from whatever he was doing. Faramir decided, since his brother was already awake anyway, he might speak to him about tomorrow. "Boromir," he mumbled, "Can we leave early in the morning? Mergil is always up early, and I want to have the chance to defeat him before lunch."  
  
The boy waited for a response, but none came. Perhaps he had spoken to softly, or Boromir did not realize what he was referring to. "Boromir?" he asked again, speaking more clearly. "Remember, you said we might find Mergil in the morning, to sword fight?"  
  
Still, there was only silence.  
  
Suddenly, a shadow fell across Faramir's face. He bolted upwards, but heavy hands grabbed him. He attempted to yell, but found his face covered, and found himself hardly able to draw breath, much less speak.  
  
Bardok placed a the sharp metal blade of his sword against Faramir's throat. "I wouldn't struggle," he hissed. "You wouldn't want your family to have the job of picking up pieces of your body everywhere, now would you? Now, lets go have a little chat with your father." 


	16. Cruel Intentions

*hugs computer* Finally, on a computer again! It's been soooo long...like 5 days now...  
  
-A.Katz Omnipotent King: *shakes head* Yep, it's always those sinister men that cause all the problems.  
  
-AzNnEgGrOePnOi: Yeah, I'll add more drama between the two brothers, especially as they get older, and Gondor begins to experience more problems.  
  
-Sammy: Good point about Bardok possibly attacking either Denethor or Boromir, but, as you will see in this chapter, he's using Faramir as more of a tool, instead of deciding to harm him... It's partly due to conviencience; after all, the 8 year old Faramir makes an easier target than the 13 year old Boromir, or the Steward.  
  
-Shlee Verde: You'll have to read this chapter to find out what happens... Also, thanks for the comments :)  
  
-Lirenel: Of course I'll keep writing :) As for how Faramir fares, well, I probably wouldn't do anything TOO bad to him...  
  
-Mystra: Thanks, I am quite flattered, because this is the first fanfic I've actually written (although I make them up in my head all the time). I'll certainly continue this one.  
  
-Agador-of-the-woods: Lol, I can't tell you what will happen, but it's in this chapter.  
  
-Hufflepuff_Heiress: Yep, it was an evil cliffhanger, wasn't it? Don't worry, this one isn't nearly that bad.  
  
Thanks for the reviews everyone! Now for the story, before my LOTR muses (Aragorn and Boromir) chase me around with flaming torches!  
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Faramir froze as he heard the words of Bardok. The boy was terrified, possibly more terrified than he had ever felt in his life, but he still maintained enough common sense to remain still. It would not do him any good to struggle against the man, lest he wished to feel the sharpness of the sword.  
  
Bardok sensed that he had frightened Faramir into submission, or at least he noticed that the boy no longer openly struggled, and loosened his grip ever so slightly as he carried him out of the bedroom. The man from Harad knew that he must work quickly, to avoid alerting any of the guards who might be making a random sweep of the tower. Though he had taken the simple measure of poisoning most of the drinks of the tower guards, he could not be sure how long it would take for the potion to begin its foul work, and whether or not all those present had consumed it. Also, Bardok had seen the older boy leave, and did not want to meet him in the hall. His plan would be spoiled if he was caught by Boromir, for it would nearly impossible to capture both boys at the same time without some sort of commotion, especially when he took into account the fact that the elder boy was certain to be considerably stronger than the one he now bore.  
  
"No," thought Bardok, "better to work with what I have. Luck is with me now, for how was I to guess that the sons would be separated so easily, and I had need only to capture one? One is certainly enough to bargain with the Steward."  
  
Bardok stepped quietly through the hall, his eyes nervously flitting back and forth, ever watchful. He knew the Steward's room had to be somewhere in the vicinity, though he knew not exactly where he would have to go to encounter Denethor. For a moment, the man from Harad considered forcing the boy to tell him, but he decided against it. Better to avoid the unnecessary sound that would be created by the question. Besides, it couldn't be that hard to find...  
  
Suddenly, there was the soft sound of feet in the hall. Bardok swiftly concealed himself behind a pillar, suspecting that Boromir might be returning to his room. Sure enough, upon closer inspection, Bardok saw a yawning figure slowly walking in the direction of the bedroom. The boy appeared to be half asleep already, for the water in the small cup he carried periodically sloshed over the edge.  
  
As soon as the boy had re-entered his bedroom, Bardok immediately returned to his search. He thought it was unlikely that Boromir would notice the absence of his younger brother; and even if he did, it was possible that the boy would attribute it to some sort of nightly wandering. Nonetheless, Bardok believed that the sooner he found Denethor, the better.  
  
********  
  
Indeed, Boromir, despite his weariness, did notice the absence of Faramir from his bed. However, instead of attributing it to some nightly wandering, he became slightly puzzled.  
  
"I wonder where Faramir has gone," he mumbled to himself. "It is somewhat out of character for him to simply leave in the middle of the night. And even if he had, would I not have seen him somewhere?" Boromir yawned. "I suppose he'll be back soon enough. It's too late to puzzle over such things now." He returned to his bed, though he did not immediately fall asleep.  
  
********  
  
Faramir nervously glanced around the hall as Bardok carried him. He did not fully understand why the man had so suddenly turned against him, though a small part of his mind kept admitting that he had suspected something was wrong with Bardok, from the time he had first seen him in the hall.  
  
Now however, there was little time for regrets. The man from Harad had halted outside Denethor's chamber, and a slight smile played across his face. Faramir saw a gleam in his eyes, and realized that his captor held him now with only a single hand, while the other slowly reached for the long sword tied at the man's belt. The boy cringed, his mind racing with possibilities.  
  
"What is he going to do?" Faramir cried inside his head. "Why does he prepare to draw his sword? Is he going to use it against me?"  
  
He had little time for such questions. Bardok suddenly tightened his grip on the boy, and, unsheathing his sword, shoved the door open. It slammed against the wall with a resounding echo, but Bardok barely noticed. Now was no longer the time for silence. Now was the time for action.  
  
Faramir stiffened at the harsh sound of the man's voice, as it rumbled through the chamber. "Denethor of Gondor!" spoke Bardok, roughly holding up Faramir. "The time for conversation has passed. I am now in procession of your son, and you shall listen to my demands. Speak now, Steward"- he spat out the word, "or your son will never again."  
  
Faramir felt the blade pressed against his throat, and he froze in fear. He longed to hear the familiar voice of someone, of anyone, but Bardok's challenge was met with only silence. Was there no one around to help him?  
  
Bardok spoke again. "Denethor! Are you too much a coward to speak, to save the life of your son!" The man waited.  
  
There was still no answer, although it was not complete silence that greeted Bardok. Faramir heard the sound of running footsteps through the hall, coming quickly closer, though the boy could not see their source.  
  
Suddenly, Bardok spun around, still holding Faramir. He removed his sword so it no longer was pressed against the boy's throat, and held it out ahead of him, into the darkened hall. Faramir heard the footsteps skid to a halt, and saw Boromir, carrying his short sword. His previous sleepiness had left his face upon hearing the yells of Bardok. Instead, Boromir was now staring back and forth between the man from Harad, and Faramir, both furious and terrified as a cold feeling of betrayal overwhelmed him.  
  
Bardok laughed. "Ahh, a little company, I see. Come to save your little brother, have you?"  
  
Boromir hardly heard the soft, dangerous words as they were spoken, for he was beginning to shake. "I saw three guards lying facedown in the hall, even as I ran here. They were not there mere minutes ago, when I left my room for a short time." His voice shook. "What have you done to them? And how dare you threaten my father and brother like that!" Boromir pointed his sword at the man, though it was hardly a threatening gesture in the eyes of Bardok.  
  
"So," replied Bardok, half to himself. "Part of my plan goes well. The poison has taken effect on the guards." He then glared at Boromir. "Do you really think you can thwart me? Drop your sword, unless you would like me to harm your brother." He once again pressed the blade to Faramir's throat, causing the boy to gasp.  
  
Fear flashed across Boromir's face, try as he might to hide it. "Don't you dare harm him!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Then do as I command."  
  
Boromir silently, reluctantly allowed his sword to slip from his hand, and it clattered to the stone floor.  
  
Bardok smirked. "Much better," he laughed, then continued. "Now, my dear boy, you are to tell me where the Steward currently resides, for he is either too deaf to hear the noises we've created, or is simply not present. There has been no movement in his room, nor the sound of any snoring, so I deem the latter to be true. Where is he?"  
  
Boromir opened his mouth as if to speak, but he did not have a chance to reply. Instantly, a dark shadow emerged from the statue, and hurtled into Bardok. The man from Harad was knocked to the ground, releasing his grip on Faramir in the process. However, as the boy attempted to scramble out of the way, he felt Bardok latch on to his foot.  
  
Denethor stood above Bardok, clothed in the chain mail he often wore underneath his regular clothes, and pointed his sword at the man. "Release him," the Steward hissed, his cold gray eyes boring holes through the man from Harad.  
  
Bardok complied, as reluctantly as Boromir had over the release of his sword, and Faramir slipped away instantly to join his brother.  
  
"Now," continued Denethor, "you must answer to me. A wise leader uses others as his pawns, if he is intelligent, but he can take matters into his own hands, if need be. Get up!" He waited impatiently.  
  
Bardok realized that he had been caught, but he was not about to give up so easily. The man from Harad pretended to rise to his feet, yet, in doing so, his eyes darted ever so slightly to the sword he had dropped during the surprise attack from the Steward. The usually perceptive Denethor did not notice, for his anger at the betrayal of Bardok burned in his mind.  
  
Faramir and Boromir, standing only a few feet away, were not blind to the movement however, brief though it was, and the latter suddenly reached forward toward the sword in a deft motion.  
  
Everything else happened very quickly in the eyes of all those involved. Bardok saw the possible removal of his sword as the disappearance of his last hope for escape. The man from Harad swiftly kicked Denethor, knocking the Steward off of his feet, and wrenched the sword blade from Boromir. The boy jerked away with a cry, clutching his now bleeding hand. Faramir leaped backwards upon seeing Bardok leap up and the boy ducked as the man began swinging his sword in the direction of both brothers. Denethor, from his spot on the floor, grabbed the foot of Bardok.  
  
"Run!" the Steward shouted at his sons, struggling to keep his grip on Bardok. "Get out of here! NOW!"  
  
Boromir was rooted to the spot. For a split second, the idea of running away from any enemy irked his pride, despite his fear of Bardok. Faramir, however, had no such qualms. He grabbed his older brother's clothes, and attempted to drag him away.  
  
Boromir returned to his senses, realizing that it was his duty to protect his younger brother. He suddenly began running across the hall, closely followed by Faramir. Bardok lunged after them, breaking the Steward's grip, and the sound of his breathing was close behind the two boys.  
  
********  
  
Mere moments later, Boromir and Faramir scrambled to the very top of the white tower. Even in the haste of fleeing from Bardok, Boromir had planned on simply exiting the hall through its main door; however, he found that it had been blocked. In his desperation to escape, he had then dragged Faramir towards the first familiar doorway available; the door leading to the top of the tower.  
  
Now, the brothers paused for a second, gasping for breath. Although neither of them could perceive any footsteps behind them in the stairwell, both boys, especially Faramir, were visibly shaking. Unable to grab Boromir's hand, for the older boy was already clutching his injured hand, Faramir latched himself on to his brother's arm, refusing to let go.  
  
Suddenly, the sound of swords clashing reached the boys' ears. Apparently Denethor and Bardok were now engaged in a battle of sorts, about halfway up the winding tower stairs. Faramir fearfully turned his head in the direction of the sound.  
  
"Do you think something bad will happen?" he asked Boromir.  
  
"Of course not," murmured Boromir in the most convincing voice he could conjure. However, the older boy found himself unable to meet his brother's gaze, fearing that Faramir might then detect the true nature of the doubts that filled his mind. Boromir had rarely seen Denethor in the midst of a swordfight, for he generally left those matters to the guards, and the boy did not know how powerful an opponent Bardok might prove to be.  
  
Faramir was not satisfied by Boromir's reply. "Are you sure?" he asked, as if he did not really believe what he had heard.  
  
"Everything will be fine, Faramir. Father won't let anything bad happen, to himself, or to me and you. The men of Minas Tirith are valiant, after all." He still detected doubt on Faramir's face, and added, "Trust me."  
  
Faramir nodded. "I will," he said softly.  
  
The two brothers then became silent, listening to the sound of the battle down below.  
  
********  
  
Eventually, the sound of the swords clashing ceased. Swift footsteps could be heard now, upon the stairs, as a man scrambled towards the top of the tower. The brothers backed away from the stairwell, fearfully glancing in the direction of the noise. It appeared to be very close now.  
  
Boromir stepped in from of Faramir, preparing to defend him if need be. He tried not to envision himself facing off with the powerful looking man from Harad, while his brother attempted to escape down the stairs. Who knew what sight might greet Faramir down there, even if he did mange to flee?  
  
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the stairs, stepping out on to the top of the tower. He wearily stumbled towards the boys, then reached towards them.  
  
Within seconds, Boromir and Faramir collapsed in relief into the strong comfort of Denethor's arms. 


	17. Dark Questions for Darkening Times

Sarah: Do I know you? lol, j/k  
  
AzNnEgGrOePnOi: Thanks again :) I'm not sure how many more chapters there will be, but I do plan on having a sequel that continues up to the point when Boromir leaves for Rivendell.  
  
Shlee Verde: Of course Faramir and Boromir are great; they're Faramir and Boromir! I just get to write about them...  
  
Agador-of-the-woods: Bardok may be gone, but there will be plenty of other problems for the brothers, and Gondor, to deal with...  
  
Caroly: I'm not sure if this is 'soon' or not, but here's the next update! Thanks for reviewing  
  
Lirenel: Denethor's definitely not my favorite character, but most of the time I think he's ok. But, I agree there are a few specific scenes where I'd like to throw a little popcorn at him! (for example, when Denethor says he wished Faramir had gone to Rivendell instead of Boromir..)  
  
A.Katz Omnipotent King: *brushes off hands* Yes, I don't think we'll be seeing any more of Bardok.  
  
*Any mistakes can be blamed on: 1) The evil paint fumes slowly moving through my house, 2) Lurtz 3) my palantir (stolen from Sauron of course) misfunctioning.  
  
******Not much action here, because the chapter is a combination of the aftermath caused by Bardok, and preparing for problems with Harad.******  
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Sleep seemed out of the question for Boromir and Faramir after the incidences of the previous night. They had spent about an hour sitting at the top of the white tower, for Denethor forbade them to go down the stairwell until Bardok was removed, then they were eventually sent back to their room. Both brothers now sat upon Boromir's bed, simply staring off into space, and attempting to ease the horrors of the earlier events.  
  
Boromir was deep in thought. He pondered the fact that he had fled from Bardok. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, partly because Denethor had ordered it, and partly because he knew it was his duty to take care of Faramir. However, something about running away from danger irked him. As he looked back, it seemed somewhat dishonorable, almost cowardly.  
  
He spoke inside his head. "What if something like that happens in the future? Will I have enough courage to fight off evil, or am I doomed by fear to flee from danger?" A shadow passed across his face. What would have happened had Bardok been too much for Denethor? Was it really the right thing to abandon a man to face another alone?  
  
Boromir was so absorbed in his thoughts, that at first he did not hear his brother speak. Faramir had to shake him before he finally responded. "What?" Boromir asked, turning towards the small figure next to him, attempting to pay attention.  
  
"What do you think happened after we fled?" Faramir repeated, gazing at his brother. "Down in the hall, and on the stairs, what happened?"  
  
Boromir thought he had a pretty good idea about the events on the stairs, but he wasn't about to describe to the younger boy the images embedded in his mind. Instead, he answered, "You saw what happened. Father came to us in the tower, so he obviously took care of Bardok."  
  
Faramir nodded, then spoke again. "He killed them, didn't he?"  
  
"What?" Boromir was confused. "Them?"  
  
"Bardok. He killed all those guards in the hall, the ones you said were lying on the floor."  
  
Boromir was surprised that Faramir would be thinking about that. "Yes," he said reluctantly, knowing that he could not get away with a complete lie. "I guess they must be dead."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why are they dead? Because he probably poisoned them, or something like that."  
  
"No, why did he kill them?"  
  
Boromir sighed. Why did his brother have to ask such questions? Bardok had been slightly crazy. Who wanted to fathom why he acted the way he did? The rumors about men from Harad being cruel and uncaring were apparently truthful. "I don't know why he killed them. It probably fit in with his plan somehow."  
  
"Oh."  
  
There was a long pause. Then, Faramir spoke once more, in a soft, almost inaudible voice. "It's never right to kill anybody, except if they are going to hurt you. Bardok deserved what he got, but those guards didn't. What will happen to their families?"  
  
The sentimentality of Faramir was beginning to wear away at Boromir's somewhat frayed patience. "Why do you speak of such things?" he answered. "Isn't it enough that we are here now, unharmed? Bardok was evil, but you use him as a basis of comparison! He was crazy!"  
  
After that, both were silent, each lost in his own thoughts.  
  
********  
  
Denethor was in a small room at the back of the tower, speaking with one of his advisors, Theren. Their voices were barely audible, as if foreshadowing some impending darkness.  
  
"My lord," Theren began. "Bardok has been disposed of, and now, there are more pressing questions to attend to. What does this mean for the relations of Gondor and Harad? Perhaps it was only an extreme event, and had naught to do with Harad."  
  
"Nay," answered Denethor. Though his face looked stern as usual, his eyes were slightly troubled. "I believe there is an impending conflict between Gondor and Harad. Bardok was sent to weaken Minas Tirith, through either my death, or the ransoming of one of my sons. Our neighbors to the south will not react too kindly when they receive news of Bardok's death."  
  
"Surely he was not important to them? He appeared to be only of middle class, perhaps a bit above, but not of royalty."  
  
"The death of one man would hardly trouble the rulers of Harad, be it a beggar or a king. However, they seem to be in the midst of brewing up trouble for us. Now that we have killed one of their own, though it be only in defense, they will use him as a symbol, and stir up an army against us."  
  
Theren frowned. How could the Steward come to such a seemingly rash conclusion based on so little evidence. "Perhaps you may be...overreacting a bit? Harad has been generally at peace with us for a good time now."  
  
Denethor hardened his voice. "Those of the house of Stewards have ever had the gift of foresight! Such things will come to pass, I can assure you."  
  
Theren still seemed unconvinced, though he silently admitted to himself that Denethor often did seem well informed about the events throughout, and even outside, the borders of Gondor. He stood up and walked towards the door. However, he paused momentarily, as if something else seemed to be on his mind. "Forgive me, my lord," Theren stated. "I have but one more thing to ask. I was told that you ambushed Bardok after he laid hold of your son, yet one thing still puzzles me. How was it that you were able to prepare yourself for such an attack?"  
  
"It was little more than an educated guess, Theren," replied Denethor. His eyes rested for an instant upon a hastily covered object, resembling a black sphere, that sat upon a low shelf of the room.  
  
********  
  
Boromir and Faramir were eventually allowed out of their room, and the afternoon hours found them outside in the courtyard in front of the white tower. They had not been given permission to wander through the city, for Denethor, among others, wanted to be certain that their safety would be in no way jeopardized. Thus, the brothers had abandoned their original plan to meet up with Mergil.  
  
Now, Faramir and Boromir were practicing their sword fighting skills, as they did on many other days. However, it was turning into a rather dismal practice. The latter was the only one paying any real attention, for Faramir appeared to be treating his sword as a poisonous snake that he had no desire to handle. In fact, he had already lost his grip on the hilt twice.  
  
Boromir finally threw down his own sword in frustration. Except in rare instances, he was generally kind towards Faramir; but he was also very proud of his swordmanship, and felt that an opponent who refused to fight was attempting to mock him. "Faramir!" he half shouted. "What is the matter with you? Your sword is not going to devour you, or turn you to stone, or anything of the like! Why do you treat it thus?!"  
  
"I do not want to fight."  
  
The quiet response irritated Boromir, and he struggled not to become too angry. "Is it true that Faramir is elevated too far above the level of sword fighting that he cannot waste any time on his brother? How dare-" He stopped suddenly upon seeing the look in Faramir's eyes.  
  
Faramir's hand shook slightly as he barely touched his sword. "I don't want to be a murderer like Bardok."  
  
Boromir's face softened. "Is that what ails you, my brother? Aye, Bardok was evil," he admitted, picking up his sword and sheathing it. "But not all people are like that. Sometimes you must fight to defend your honor, or your country, or your family. Surely you realize that Father fought last night to protect us? And our soldiers protect Gondor. They are not murderers."  
  
Faramir did not respond, so Boromir added, "Someday, we will fight together, to protect Gondor, to protect our people. Then you will understand what I speak of."  
  
A moment passed, as Faramir thought about his brother's words. "I guess," he eventually replied, brightening a little.  
  
Boromir grinned in an attempt to further cheer up Faramir. "Come on then, let us think of other things! I suppose if you wish it, the sword fighting might wait until tomorrow. We will find something more interesting to entertain us!"  
  
Faramir looked hopeful. "Alright, brother. But-," he paused for a second, "could you keep my sword? Just for a little while?" He held it out to Boromir nervously.  
  
"I will," answered Boromir, "but only temporarily. I would be sorely disappointed if I lost my best opponent, and had to practice sword fighting against a tree!" He took the sword from Faramir, then gestured towards the tower. "Come, my brother!"  
  
Faramir eagerly followed Boromir back towards the palace, feeling mostly relieved of the great weight that had plagued him following Bardok's attack. Neither brother paid attention to the darkening clouds, casting shadows upon the southern sky. 


	18. Brewing of Battle

AzNnEgGrOePnOi: Here's my next update! I certainly appreciate all the great reviews you have given me thus far.  
  
Shlee Verde: I love developing the characters of Boromir, Faramir, and Denethor, and I wish I could see more of them besides what is in LOTR. As far as your question about Harad....well, it will be answered very soon...  
  
_______________________________________________________  
In the monthes following the brother's encounter with Bardok, Gondor seemed to rest upon shaky ground. Though the lands between the mountain and the sea were not engaged in any battle with Harad, a cloak of evil appeared to be spreading. News came to Minas Tirith of the Haradrim, creating newly forged alliances with the dark Uruks of Mordor.  
  
Mordor. It was a land of terror known to Gondor, for, many generations of men ago, a great battle was fought upon the slopes of its great mountain. However, most people could remember little of such past events, save the names of Isildur and Sauron, and now the people of Minas Tirith knew little of the area. They were only familiar with some of the evils it spewed out, like the Uruks, and terrible shadowed horsemen that were occasionally sighted along the borders.  
  
When the people of Minas Tirith heard even the slightest rumors of a Harad- Modor alliance, their faces grew grave, and their hearts dark. For awhile, they had dared to imagine that the ongoing conflicts might be over, that peace might reign. Now, they often gazed out to the south and east, ever watchful.  
  
********  
  
A few weeks after the tenth birthday of Faramir, both brothers were sitting in their room, talking. Earlier that day, they'd been wandering around Minas Tirith, practicing their sword fighting skills against some of the other boys. Faramir had considered the words of Boromir concerning fighting, given to him many monthes ago, and no longer felt quite as opposed to the idea. Though he firmly resolved to never become a "murderer", as he called Bardok, he still took part in mock battles with the others. Now, Faramir recalled his encounter with Mergil that afternoon, in which he'd given the older boy.  
  
"He really seemed distracted," noted Faramir, as he carefully ran his fingers along the flat side of his sword, a metal one now, for he was too old for the small wooden one he had recieved earlier.  
  
"Perhaps you simply have superior skills to him, brother," answered Boromir. "After all, you have been practicing a lot lately." He paused for a second before adding, "But I daresay I'd still be more than a match for you."  
  
Faramir ignored the slight prideful jest by his brother, for he knew the other intended no ill of it, and it was indeed, a truthful fact. "I still think he was distracted. He fell so easily today."  
  
"Perhaps he was thinking about other things." Boromir himself had spent a lot of time comtemplating a possible war with Harad or Mordor. He had noticed the grave looks upon the city peoples' faces lately, the grim look that Denethor seemed to wear almost constantly now days, the fortifications being added to some of the city walls. Occasionally Boromir shared his thoughts with Faramir, but not often, for he was painfully aware of the fact that his younger brother was precisely that: young.  
  
Boromir's thoughts were interrupted by Faramir. "Was he thinking about war?"  
  
"What?!" Boromir was startled.  
  
"War. I know it's coming. The men are thinking about it all the time; I see their faces. And you are thinking about it too; but you never talk about it."  
  
Boromir hated the idea of his brother being worried about war, whether it was coming or not. Couldn't he simply be able to enjoy his childhood, like he himself had (at least up until recently)? "Don't worry about the war," Boromir said, despite the traces of anxiety visible in his eyes. "Everything will be fine. Perhaps we may have problems with Harad, but they will not attack us, up here in the high tower."  
  
"You're lying." Faramir looked ill at ease, though it was impossible to tell whether it came from his slight annoyance at being lied too, or his fears at the idea of an attack.  
  
"Why would I be lying?" questioned Boromir, attempting to distract his brother. "Men of Minas Tirith are truthful, so why shouldn't I be?"  
  
"You are afraid, and you want to hide it from me."  
  
The words struck Boromir hard, because he was unable to deny the truth in them. Though he admired the battle stories of old, about heros defending their lands and people, he himself had never seen such a fight. Boromir liked to consider himself fearless; yet, if war did indeed come, he wasn't sure if he could live up to the courage of the mighty men before him. Still, he did not like the fact that he was so affected by Faramir's words. "I am not afraid!" he replied, raising his voice slightly. "How dare you say that!"  
  
Faramir realized immediately that his words had injured Boromir's pride. "I am sorry-" he began.  
  
Boromir however, did not hear the rest of his brother's words. Unhappy and unable to express his true feelings, he stormed out of the room.  
  
********  
  
Faramir sighed as he watched Boromir leave. He admired his brother dearly, and hated to insult him in any way, but he wasn't sure how to react to the anxiety he noted in his face and actions. Boromir enjoyed fighting, in a way his brother never quite did; this Faramir understood. However, Faramir knew that Boromir had never really been tested in battle, and for his older brother, the thought of actually being at war was a little unnerving.  
  
"He should be afraid," thought Faramir. "But why does he try to hide it from me? I can see it in his eyes."  
  
Faramir knew his brother very well, perhaps better than anyone else. But now, he did not understand the way in which Boromir was acting lately. He needed time to think.  
  
"I'll go talk to the guards by the first gate," Faramir finally decided. "It's still early enough, if I hurry. They seem to be worried a lot about the war too, so maybe they will undersand Boromir better than I."  
  
He quickly sheathed his sword to carry with him, retrieved his cloak, and slipped, unoticed, out of the great hall of the tower.  
  
********  
  
Boromir walked swifty towards the stairway, to the pinnacle of the white tower. He now spent a good deal of time there, when he was not with Faramir, for he enjoyed simply gazing out upon the land that was Gondor. Now, Boromir sought out the tower to escape the anxiety that seemed to plague his thoughts.  
  
He climbed the stairs in a matter of minutes, and soon stood at the very top. There was a slight breeze as the sun began to slowly set in the orange sky of the west. Boromir sighed as he saw the sky, then he diverted his eyes towards the south. There, dark clouds were visible; a reflection of the darkening thoughts of the people of Gondor.  
  
"I have always dreamed of becoming a great fighter," Boromir mused aloud, "greater than any that ever was before in Minas Tirith. All men would respect me, and after a huge battle I would always ride home to the cheering crowds. But now, it appears as though war truely is upon us. And it is true; I am a bit nervous, for I have never been in a battle any more serious than a mock fight with Mergil!"  
  
He paused, his mind racing with a thousand different thoughts. Was he truely brave enough to live up to the great men of the past, or would he quail at the sight of a battle?  
  
"I am not afraid!" Boromir suddenly stated, as if he were trying to convince himself of this very fact. He pulled out his sword quickly, and swung it about, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hands. "I am not afraid!"  
  
Suddenly, as if in answer, there was an earsplitting noise from the city below; the sound of a great horn echoed across the stone walls. Great lights were lit upon the main city gate, blazing like giant orange fireballs in the slowly darkening sky. The clouds of the south appeared to be approaching, yet, now as Boromir studied them more closely, he saw that they were not clouds at all. Instead, he saw a great cloak of dust rising from the dry land, emitting from a massive black shape.  
  
Boromir stepped back from the edge of the tower, gripping his sword tightly in his shaking hand. The black shape that was now swiftly moving towards Minas Tirith was a giant formation of men. Evil men from Harad, bearing dark shields, long spears, and swords.  
  
War was coming.  
  
Boromir tore his gaze from the approaching army, and bolted back towards the stairs. He half ran, half slid down them, ending up in an ungainly heap at the bottom. Straightening himself as he got to his feet, he saw Denethor running by, towards the door to the hall. The Steward was in his usual clothes, yet underneath them, the boy caught a glimpse of chain mail.  
  
"Boromir!" Denethor uncharacteristicly shouted as he saw his older son. "Come with me! We must make sure Minas Tirith is prepared for attack! The Haradrim defeated some of our men in South Ithilien, and they are marching as we speak towards the city."  
  
"Aye, they were visible from the white tower Father," replied Boromir, attempting to hide any traces of possible fear.  
  
"You saw them? They must be closer then I believed. We must hurry!" The Steward stopped for a second. "Where is your brother?"  
  
A slight shadow flickered over Boromir's face as he remembered the previous conversation with his brother. "He was in his room not long before."  
  
"Find him quickly, then, and then follow me to the city. I understand you have tried to conceal the threat of war from Faramir (though I doubt your success), but now, he will learn about such things whether we wish it or not. War is here, and none can hide from it!"  
  
With that, Denethor left the hall, most likely to meet up with some of his guards who were waiting outside in the courtyard.  
  
Boromir watched him leave, then ran to the room he and Faramir still shared. "Faramir!" he said, opening the door quickly, "We must go with Father now, into the city! Grab your sword and come with me!"  
  
He stopped, noticing that the room was vacant. "Faramir?" He looked around, as if he expected his brother to suddenly appear. "Faramir? Where are you?"  
  
Boromir groaned. "He must be somewhere else in the tower! But I don't have time to go searching for him. I guess he will simply have to meet up with us later."  
  
With that, he turned around, and left the room, heading towards the entrance to the hall.  
  
********  
  
Faramir was nowhere near the tower; however, he had not yet reached the main gate when the tremendous blast of the horn sounded. His hands flew to his ears at the harsh sound, waiting for it to fade. "What was that?" he wondered, for he was not familiar with the horn cry that alerted the city to an enemy approach.  
  
He saw people stop suddenly at the sound, looking around quickly. Then, more noises filled the streets. Women ran inside their houses, taking young children with them. Those who remained in the streets, the older children and most of the men, ran towards the city gate, taking up their swords as swiftly as they could find them. Some even put on chain mail, or bore shields, as if they had been anticipating the possiblity of the horn call. They had not been idly waiting for battle.  
  
Faramir did not go unoticed, caught up in a swarm of people heading towards the gate. One man suddenly stepped up to him, saying, "Aren't you coming? You look old enough."  
  
Faramir was startled. "What? Come where?"  
  
"There's a war coming! All of us are to meet along the first wall of the city, near the gate! Surely you have heard this news?"  
  
"But-"  
  
"Come on now! I've an extra helmet if you want it; my son's grown to big to wear it." The man handed Faramir a small helm, and helped him put it on. "Now then! Let's go!"  
  
"But-" Faramir found himself being taken towards the main gate, unsure of what he might find there. 


	19. Departure of Mergil

Agador-of-the-woods: Here is more now :) including what happens to Faramir.  
  
AzNnEgGrOePnOi: Sorry the update was a little slow...I'll try to update more often (whenever I can find some time).  
  
Aragorns Evenstar: Glad you like the way I wrote the characters. I try to keep them pretty close to the way they seem to act in the book.  
  
Shlee Verde: Thanks :) Yeah, Faramir probably shouldn't be out there...although I find it interesting that in Return of the King Bergil (Beregond's son) wants to go to battle and I believe he is around the same age.  
  
akin: Lol, I think most 10 year olds get involved in things that are a little over their heads sometimes...  
  
This chapter is kind of short. The fighting style is similar to Helm's Deep from The Two Towers, but considering the way Minas Tirith is built, it seemed appropriate. Oh yeah, and the rating is upped to pg-13 for violence, just to be safe.  
  
~~~~Sorry it took so long to update! I have hardly had any time to do so, until now~~~~  
  
________________________________________  
Faramir was half lead, half dragged to a position along the outermost wall of the city, not far from the main gate that opened onto the Pelannor. A million different thoughts were racing through his head at once, and he felt utterly lost amongst what seemed to be masses of bodies gathered in one area of Minas Tirith.  
  
Once again, Faramir attempted to speak to the man who had ushered him into this area of the city. "Why-?" he began, but was immediately cut off by the various other conversations around him. Men and boys seemed to be trying to shout over one another, simply to be heard.  
  
Suddenly, amidst the clamor, there was a vaguely familiar shout. "Faramir!"  
  
Faramir turned his head wildly, looking for the source of the shout. He felt someone pull the helmet off his head, and saw as Mergil emerged from within the chaos of the crowd. "What are you doing here?" the older boy demanded. "Surely you were not meant to be summoned here by the cry of the horn?" He seemed almost annoyed to see the younger boy there, but was attempting to mask his feelings.  
  
"I'm.....I'm not sure why I'm here," answered Faramir, attempting to put his confused thoughts into coherent words. "I just left the tower, to find one of the guards at the main gate. Suddenly I heard a horn. A man came up to me saying that I must come with him, and I ended up here with the crowd. What is all this?"  
  
"They've been preparing for war these last few weeks: war with Harad, the men say," replied Mergil. "We were told that all men and boys of sufficient age were to report here the instant the horn was sounded. Enemy troops must be in sight! But you are not of sufficient age, no?" He glanced at Faramir. "Where is the man who said you must come here?"  
  
Faramir glanced around, but did not see the man. "He must be gone somewhere in this crowd. But I have no mind to fight in a war anyway!"  
  
At that moment, Denethor himself was spotted, near the main gate, standing on a makeshift platform of sorts.  
  
"Looks like it's a bit late for misgivings now," remarked Mergil, his face excited. "Your father is up there, preparing to speak! We are likely to fight soon!"  
  
Faramir attempted to call out, but the crowds were beginning to silence at the sight of the Steward, and the boy was promptly hushed by a few nearby men before he yelled the first syllable.  
  
Denethor raised his hand for a brief moment, then began speaking. "Men of Minas Tirith, of Gondor," he said. The Steward seemed to have the remarkable quality of making himself heard by all the Men without appearing to strain his voice. "You have been summoned here at this time. Enemy troops from Harad have been seen marching directly towards the city. Apparently, they managed to slip past some of our keenest Ranger patrols by choosing a path close to Modor, then cutting directly west towards us."  
  
A few people grumbled at the sneakiness of the Haradrim, but soon grew quiet.  
  
"Now," Denethor continued, "they are in the fields outside these very walls. I believe they will be here before long. Their numbers do not seem to great for us, and we have the advantage of our defenses; yet they are poised to fight. But we shall be ready for them!"  
  
That seemed to be the end of the Steward's very brief speech. However, it seemed to have accomplished much, for the Men roared with approval. Denethor stepped off the platform and disappeared into one of the nearby buildings, where many of the extra swords and arrows were stored. It was vital that the city have enough weapons to fend off the attackers.  
  
Immediately after, some of the commanders, who appeared to know exactly what was expected of them, began to divide up their forces along the wall. Faramir attempted to squeeze through the crowd towards the building where Denethor had entered, but one of the commanders grabbed him by the shoulder.  
  
"Do not run away!" he said sternly. "We are supposed to report over there." The man pointed; then gave Faramir a glance. "I've not seen you around before, but no matter! You'll catch on soon enough. Where is your weapon?"  
  
Faramir obediently showed him the small sword at his side, causing the commander to stifle a scoff. "That!" he exclaimed. "That will hardly defend you from Harad! Come now, surely you have a better sword?"  
  
Faramir shook his head.  
  
"A bow then?" the man persisted.  
  
Faramir nodded. "But it is at home..."  
  
"At home! At home!" The man scowled. "It will hardly do you any good here, boy!" The man muttered to himself about the irresponsibility of young boys, but quickly found Faramir a bow. "Here," he stated. "Now come along! We don't have all day here."  
  
Up until now, Faramir had mostly just listened to the imposing commander, but now, he attempted to explain his situation again. "But I am not-" he began.  
  
The man gave him a glare, then said, "There will be no insolence here."  
  
Faramir sighed, and was forced to follow the threatening man through the crowds.  
  
********  
  
By this time, Boromir had caught up with Denethor. "Father!" he said, panting slightly. "I was unable to locate Faramir at the tower. Did he wander back down here with you?"  
  
Denethor turned away from the swords he had been inspecting, a puzzled expression on his face. "I've not seen your brother at all," he replied, thinking. "Perhaps you missed him at the tower?"  
  
"It is unlikely, Father. I looked everywhere, save the very top of the tower, for I would have seen if he had climbed it." Boromir was confused. Where was Faramir?  
  
"Perhaps there is somewhere you failed to look?"  
  
"No, I am sure of it. He was not at the tower."  
  
The Steward was about to speak again, but he was cut off by the sound of another horn outside. "The enemy approached quickly," he muttered. "They are close to the city now." He turned to Boromir. "It is doubtful that Faramir was too far from the tower," Denethor said, although he did not seem fully confident. "You may return to your own duties, but keep an eye out for him. If you do see him, tell Faramir to report to me at once."  
  
Denethor waved a hand, and Boromir left.  
  
Outside the building, Boromir could now hear the faint sounds of marching, and shouts from men who had positioned himself on top of the first wall. He still wondered about Faramir's whereabouts, but the air was whispering tales of battle, and he soon became more interested in the fighting he felt would occur quite soon. Boromir joined one of the groups of men, and found a spot on the wall.  
  
********  
  
Faramir too had a spot upon the wall, and in fact, it was not a great distance away from Boromir. Still, many men separated them, and Faramir's great anxiety was beginning to take over his normally thoughtful mind. He could see the shadows of an approaching army, and fear rooted him to the spot. The two hands that gripped his bow shook, the knuckles turning white as each second passed.  
  
All around him, men and boys were peering into the growing darkness. Mergil had ended up on Faramir's left side. The older boy did not speak, but his eyes were glowing, and he did not seem to share his companions fear of the impending battle.  
  
Suddenly, the commander who had spoken to Faramir earlier took up his bow. He snatched an arrow from his quiver, lit it on fire, and shot it up into the air. A bright flame was visible to all those upon the wall, a signal to take up their bows. Hundreds of hands grasped arrows, and fitted them carefully.  
  
Many of the hands, including Faramir's were shaking. He found himself having a bit of difficulty getting the arrow properly fitted to his bow. Mergil scoffed slightly next to him.  
  
"Having trouble?" The older boy seemed a little resentful to see Faramir side by side with him during battle. He didn't want to baby-sit.  
  
Faramir did not respond, for he was too terrified by the shadows he saw approaching. There was an army of men from Harad, just coming into arrow- range. They wore black helmets over their faces, and carried huge shields in front of them.  
  
All eyes were upon the Haradrim. For a moment, it was completely silent on the wall, save the sound of marching, dulled slightly by the golden grass of the Pelannor.  
  
Then, as if the man were responding to some unspoken signal, a volley of arrows was released from the wall. Faramir closed his eyes for a split second; then they shot open again as he let his arrow loose. He could not see if it hit a target or not, and indeed, he did not really care to know.  
  
Mergil let out a whoop. "Let them have it!" he cried, launching his second arrow. He followed its path with his eyes, pointing when one of the Haradrim seemed to fall suddenly.  
  
The Haradrim held their shields up in front of them, but they could not block the endless arrows that rained down upon them. Many fell upon the fields, and did not rise again. However, they did not seemed too discouraged. At a command from one of their men, they stopped suddenly, dropped their shields, and drew their bows. Then, they fitted arrows upon the strings, and loosed them upon the city of Minas Tirith.  
  
Faramir heard a quick shout from the commander to duck for cover, and raise their shields. Then, he saw arrows zipping overhead, far too many to count. Having no shield, he crouched behind the wall as well as he could, and held his bow out in front of him, though it was unlikely to offer any protection.  
  
As the initial wave of arrows began tapering off, Faramir suddenly heard a loud cry next to him. His head snapped to his side, where Mergil had previously been standing. However, the boy was no longer there.  
  
Faramir felt a rising dread consuming his mind, but as the last arrows fell, he crawled slowly to the edge of the wall, and looked down. Mergil lay at the foot of the wall, a single arrow piercing his heart. 


	20. The Bitter Side of War

Mystra: Here's more right now... :)  
  
Shlee Verde: Yep, Mergil is gone. But I decided I had to get rid of him at least sometime prior to LOTR (he's an original character after all)...  
  
Agador-of-the-woods: It is sad, but what will happen when Boromir finds out? He did like Mergil's company even more than Faramir.  
  
Arwen: The end. Just kidding, of course I wasn't going to end the story there! I think that would even drive me crazy. lol  
  
Aragorns Evenstar: I am updating as much as I can; unfortunately, between school, graduation stuff, and Sea Scouts, my time is getting extremely limited. But I am flattered by your comments :)  
  
And now, for the story:  
  
______________________________________________-  
Faramir's eyes snapped shut at the sight of the boy down below, but he found himself unable to erase the terrifying image that kept appearing in his mind. He continued to see the twisted shape of Mergil, blood slowly emerging from a single arrow wound. Time seemed to stop, and the noises from the fighting suddenly grew dimmer, as though an invisible cloak of darkness were falling upon Faramir. His long forgotten bow slipped from his trembling fingers, and landed somewhere next to him, but though he opened his eyes to glance at it, he no longer cared.  
  
Men ran by Faramir, too preoccupied with the threat of the Haradrim to stop and question the boy. Even if one had spared the necessary instant, Faramir could not have spoken, for he was too deep in his own dark thoughts, and only vaguely registered the commotion that still surrounded him.  
  
"Why?" he cried in his head. "What have we done to them! Why do they attack our city? Haven't the Haradrim lands enough of their own, without waging a war upon Gondor?"  
  
Again, an image of the fallen Mergil flashed before his mind, causing him to shudder. "He liked to fight; that's true enough," he mused to himself. "But he was not a murderer! Not like the Haradrim! Why did he have to die, when the only real crime he committed was defending the city from heartless invaders?"  
  
A strange feeling seemed to engulf the boy at this most recent thought, and he suddenly began shaking again, though it was no longer from fear. Instead, he felt like a small flame had begun to burn, deep in his heart; a fire that quickly began to spread.  
  
As he crawled back to his feet, a change was apparent in the eyes of Faramir. Gone was his usual thoughtful gaze. In its place was an expression more akin to one commonly worn by the Steward; a steely expression brought on by pain and frustration. The boy snatched his bow from the stones where it had fallen, and took an arrow from the abandoned quiver of Mergil, lying only a few yards away. He fitted it to his bow, and threw caution to the wind by standing at the wall facing the wide Pellanor.  
  
Suddenly, an anguished cry emerged from Faramir, as he let a wild arrow fly. "WHY!!!" he yelled, tears streaming down his reddened face. In the noise, his cry did not seem to carry far, but he continued, sending a tirade of words down at the shadows of the Haradrim below. "Go away! We haven't done anything to you! Why do you force us to fight you!"  
  
Again, he snatched an arrow, and sent it hurtling below, not paying attention to where it landed. "Why! Go away!"  
  
Yet again, an arrow was released from his bow. "Why?!"  
  
Within only a matter of moments, Faramir had emptied all of the arrows from Mergil's quiver into the immense shadow below. He had carefully aimed not one of the lot, choosing instead to simply let them loose in his frustration. Now, Faramir collapsed where he was, on the top of the outer wall, and lay their wallowing in his pain. The noise of the battle grew dimmer around him. Then, there was naught.  
  
********  
  
Boromir was also atop the outer wall, using a borrowed bow to repel the Haradrim from the city. He was not used to such battle, and had been slightly apprehensive at the start; however, now his mind seemed to be set on one thing. He, Boromir, son of Denethor, was taking part in defending the cruel Haradrim from Minas Tirith.  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that he was not the only person responsible for the safety of the city, and that there were probably many men more skilled with a bow than he. At the same time, Boromir felt the slightest glimmer of pride. It did not matter that his arrows flew a little crooked, or might miss their mark during practice. Out here upon the wall, aimed at a massive group of men below, he felt as though it were impossible to miss.  
  
"Even Faramir could not best me now!" he thought to himself, smirking a little. "At best, he might be my equal!"  
  
Boromir paused for a second at the thought of his younger brother, distracted from the shadows below. He silently chastised himself, for he knew that in a hand to hand battle, taking a break might cost him his life. However, Boromir did not feel much fear upon the wall, even during the volleys of arrows, and he couldn't help wondering where Faramir had disappeared to.  
  
"He must be up at the tower still," Boromir finally said aloud, unable to decide whether his comment came from his true thoughts, or from a desire that his brother be somewhere safe. "He probably wouldn't care much for fighting such as this."  
  
Suddenly, his thoughts of Faramir completely left his mind. The wall upon which he stood had begun to shake in a strange manner. Boromir felt it move underneath his very feet, and he was forced to hold out his arms to avoid stumbling. The Haradrim must be using a battering ram to knock down the gate! It was, after all, quite close to where he now stood.  
  
Boromir's suspicions were confirmed when he hazarded a glance over to his right. Sure enough, a massive pole, apparently made from the trunk of some giant tree, was being hurled against the gate by a group of men. Each time they connected, the wall around them shook.  
  
"They are going to knock the whole city down, if they keep it up!" Boromir cried aloud, raising his bow once again. He fitted to it another arrow, and attempted unsuccessfully to strike one of the men wielding the battering ram.  
  
********  
  
Faramir was jolted to his senses by some tremendous crashing noises that seemed to be coming from the very walls of Minas Tirith. He scrambled to his feet in surprise, momentarily pushing his other thoughts aside. "What is that?" he wondered, confused.  
  
His anger returned to him in a sudden rush as he spotted the battering ram being hurled against the main city gate. Each time it connected, a shudder seemed to run along the wall, and only intensify the battle. "No!" Faramir yelled, though he found that his voice was a little hoarse from his previous shouting. "Go away!" He searched for an arrow to fire at the group of men wielding the battering ram, and, finding none, Faramir hurled his own bow at them, wildly off the mark.  
  
No one seemed to notice. There were men running back and forth along the wall, sending arrows flying towards the ground, but they had no time to notice Faramir. The great crashing against the wall echoed all around, seeming to drain the morale of those around. A single thought crossed the minds of the army; stop the Haradrim.  
  
Faramir was left standing on top of the wall, unprotected and weaponless.  
  
********  
  
From his spot on the wall, Boromir continued aiming arrows at the Haradrim near the city gate. However, he eventually reached a point when he found that his last arrow had been spent. Slightly annoyed at the thought of leaving the Haradrim to crash against the gate, he sighed, and quickly glanced around. Perhaps he could find arrows somewhere nearby.  
  
Although night had long since fallen upon Gondor, the city was well lit with torches. Boromir did not have any great difficulty scanning the surrounding wall for arrows. At first he attributed this completely to the light source; then, his heart fell a little when he realized that his vision was only partly obscured by men. Certainly, there were still many left, running along the walls, but he also noticed that quite a few had fallen while he was busy.  
  
There was no time to dwell on this fact, however; for something else caught Boromir's eye. As he was glancing to his right, past the city gate, he noticed a small figure standing close to the wall's edge, failing to heed the arrows speeding past. The figure appeared to be no more than 10 or 11 years of age, with dark brown hair, and, upon further inspection, Boromir saw something very familiar about him.  
  
"Faramir!" the older brother yelled. "Watch out!"  
  
The voice could not carry far enough in the noise of the battle; yet, even if the whole of Gondor had heard the shouted words, it would have been to no avail. As Boromir watched, the small figure of his brother collapsed on to the wall, as if struck by some foe.  
  
All thoughts of battle instantly left Boromir's mind. He forgot about the arrows he had been seeking. He forgot about the Haradrim. He even forgot the nervous-excitement of his first real battle. These were replaced by a single goal; reach Faramir.  
  
Boromir wildly scrambled along the wall, shoving his way through anyone who seemed to get in the way. A few men noticed, but were too absorbed in the battle to care about a single person when there were so many lives on the line.  
  
At one point, while Boromir was nearly above the gate, the wall shook violently. He stumbled and fell, snapping his bow in the process. Brushing it aside, he stood up and continued running.  
  
It took only a moment to reach the spot where Faramir lay, but to the older brother, it seemed an eternity. Shaking with fear, he knelt down next to the fallen figure, cringing as he saw a black arrow in his side. Was his brother still alive? Why had he been out here upon the wall?  
  
Boromir at first found himself unable to speak, and attempted to rouse Faramir. Finally, he said softly, almost in a whisper, "Faramir?"  
  
There was a small moan from his brother.  
  
"Faramir!"  
  
Boromir thought he had never been so relieved in his life to hear his brother, but, he soon realized that his celebration might have come too soon. Faramir was barely clinging to consciousness, and grew weaker with every passing minute. He needed help from a healer, and quickly. Boromir noted his brother's tear streaked face, and, as the latter slowly opened his eyes, he noticed that they seemed clouded with pain.  
  
"Come on," Boromir said softly, picking up Faramir. The younger brother cried out when he was moved.  
  
"Go away," Faramir sobbed.  
  
Boromir ignored the comment, attributing it to the pain from the arrow wound. "I know it hurts, but you can't stay here all night." He was forced to wait for some of the Haradrim arrows to fall; then he carried Faramir down from the wall, hoping that he could locate a healer in time. 


	21. No Comfort in the Night

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Sorry that I did not have a chance to thank you yet, but I will definitely do so in the next chapter!  
  
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The scene inside the outermost city wall was nothing short of chaotic. An insistent drumming seemed to fill the night air; the sound of a battering ram being hurled mercilessly against the gate. Only moments before, the gate was still holding up securely against the invaders, yet it now began to shudder and crack before the Haradrim. Men struggled to brace this one vulnerable spot to the city, as the attackers ceased the firing arrows and focused solely on this one goal: enter the city.  
  
Boromir had found it difficult to navigate through the archers on the walls in his dash to reach Faramir. Now that he was on the ground, attempting to make his way along one of the main streets, it seemed nearly impossible. Men ran back and forth, carrying more arrows for their bows, and large timbers to brace the main gate. Other people were fleeing. Fearing the worst, they were drawing back, heading towards the second city gate with any supplies they could carry. The worst part were the soldiers who littered the streets, some dead, some dying, and some too injured to move. Boromir hated the idea of passing up so many who needed help, but each small groan from the injured Faramir made him painfully aware that time was slipping away.  
  
He needed to get help.  
  
********  
  
Denethor was no longer playing so passive a role in the battle. Instead, he was now outside, ordering some of the men back, to fortify the second gate. The Steward had been given poor news concerning the fight, and surveyed the damage with a scowl.  
  
Another man, one of his leaders amongst the troops, was with him.  
  
"How much longer will the main gate hold out?" questioned Denethor, though his observations already gave him a grim answer.  
  
"Not long," was the man's reply. "If they continue on at this rate, it could fall within minutes. We still shower arrows upon the Haradrim, but they are far too many to deter, and even as we speak, the gate is failing."  
  
The Steward's face darkened at the confirmation of his own thoughts. "I have ordered the archers off the wall. They will retreat past the second gate and regroup. Most of the weapons have already been moved."  
  
"And what of the men who remain here to fortify the gate? If they leave, it will undoubtedly fall now; yet if they stay, they will have no way to escape the onslaught of our enemies when they break through."  
  
Denethor's response was firm. "Keep only the number of men here necessary to hold the gate for a few minutes longer. Get everyone else out of here, now!"  
  
The man nodded, then quickly added, "And what of the dead and injured?"  
  
"How many are their number?"  
  
"I don't not know, but there seem to be many; I'd say at least 150, 200 perhaps."  
  
"Help those that you can, but leave the dead. We still have a responsibility to protect the living."  
  
"Aye."  
  
With that, the man left to order the retreat to the second gate. Denethor surveyed the damage once again. He could only hope that Faramir had been able to avoid the battle completely, and that Boromir would follow the other men to safety.  
  
********  
  
Boromir was quick to notice that nearly all the men were heading in the same general direction; back towards the second gate. He realized that a retreat must have been ordered, for he knew the men would not otherwise run away in such a manner. Two thoughts ran through his head simultaneously. He believed that Denethor, and therefore some aid for his brother, might be somewhere nearby.  
  
He also understood that the battle was growing more desperate as time passed, and it was vital for him to leave the area immediately.  
  
Unfortunately, the nervous excitement that had driven Boromir earlier during the night had vanished, replaced by dread. He was growing very tired with each footstep, and his arms ached under the weight they were now forced to bear. Mere minutes before, the street had seemed crowded with men, rushing back and forth. Now Boromir realized with a jolt that many had left the area. In fact, the migration of men to the second gate was gradually leaving him behind.  
  
He certainly did not want his only company to be his quickly fading brother, and the bodies of dead men scattered about the street!  
  
With panic rising in his body, Boromir struggled to walk faster, fearing that the next gate might be closed before he ever made it. His feet no longer seemed to be a part of his body, but he willed them on.  
  
Suddenly, he stumbled in his weariness, causing both he and Faramir to crash into the hard stones of the main road. There was a small cry from the younger brother, but he neither opened his eyes or moved.  
  
Boromir groaned as he sat up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He was terrified that he had injured Faramir further, and reached over to touch his shoulder. "Faramir?-" he attempted to ask, but stopped short when he realized how cold his brother felt. Time was running out.  
  
Boromir gently picked up Faramir again, and crawled back to his shaking feet. He glanced around for a second, noticed the increasing gap between himself and the retreating men, and continued towards them. Boromir managed to forget some of his weariness for a moment as he walked on, and gained a little ground on those in front of him.  
  
Though dread continued to haunt him, he was struck by a tiny glimmer of hope when he spotted the second gate. It was still a ways in front of him, but now it seemed to be a reality. Perhaps he might make it after all.  
  
Of course, fate often has other plans for people, and now it seemed to be dealing yet another bad hand for Boromir and Faramir. Only seconds after Boromir saw the second gate of the city, he heard an earsplitting crash echo from behind. The main gate, which had taken so much abuse at the hands of the invading Haradrim, finally failed. As the remaining defenders retreated from their duty at the gate, the enemy roared into the city.  
  
Everyone heard them coming, but to Boromir the horrifying sounds seemed a death sentence to himself and his brother. He broke into a halting run as the pursuit of the Haradrim grew loud behind him. The distance that seemed to take him so long to cover was being swiftly devoured by the quick feet of the invaders. They easily overtook those soldiers who had defended the gate until the end, and made short work of them.  
  
Now, they were closing the gap between themselves and the second gate.  
  
Boromir was of little interest to the Haradrim, though he knew he would be at the mercy of their swords if he did not make it to the gate. One small soldier meant very little, but he would not go unnoticed. He hazarded a glance behind him, eyes widening as he saw how close they were coming.  
  
As he turned back, however, his heart seemed to stop for an instant. The gate was being closed.  
  
It was not an unwise move on the part of Minas Tirith. After all, had the men waited any longer, they would have been unlikely to get it completely closed and barricaded in time to fend off the Haradrim. And, of course, it was entirely possible that those who were now at the gate had not stopped to notice Boromir's approach, for the street had grown much darker when the retreating men had extinguished their torches.  
  
Now all of Boromir's hopes seemed to die. He still struggled towards the gate, but he knew it would be impossible to make it. Within minutes the Haradrim would be upon him. There were already archers beginning to fire their arrows from atop the second city wall. They seemed to be raining down upon the very streets of the city.  
  
Suddenly, Boromir realized that the arrows were not the only things being hurled from the wall. A familiar voice drifted into his mind. "Boromir! Get out of there!" It did not quite register in his mind that someone was trying to get his attention. "Boromir!!!"  
  
He looked up, attempting to spot the source of the voice. Eventually he managed to see Beregond, standing on top of the wall not far from where Boromir now stood. Apparently Beregond had noticed his friends below, and somehow made his way above the spot where Boromir was. He held a rope in his hands; then threw one end down the wall.  
  
"Hold on, and I will try to pull you up!" Beregond shouted above the noise.  
  
With the last of his energy, Boromir stumbled over to the wall, and holding Faramir in one hand, he firmly grabbed the rope with the other. Then, Beregond began to pull.  
  
Soon both boys realized that they had a problem. Their time was nearly up, for the Haradrim were closing in, but Beregond could not pull both Boromir and Faramir up by himself. He simply did not have the strength, and there was no help available, for the remaining men were all centered around the gate, to prevent it from falling to the invaders.  
  
Boromir could see the shields and swords of the Haradrim from where he stood, causing a shudder to run through his body. At the same time, he was aware of the fact that, with each second that passed, Faramir slipped further and further into darkness. Boromir took a ragged breath; then took the only solution he could think of. He quickly tied the rope to Faramir, and yelled at Beregond to pull his brother up.  
  
Then, he turned to face the hordes of enemies that awaited him. 


	22. Both Sides of Fate

~Shlee Verde~: Yep, Boromir and Faramir are definitely there for one another; that's what makes them such cool characters. Even though you never see them together at all in LOTR, I think they were very close. ~acacea~: Yes, it's an evil cliffhanger, I know.... *runs away from crazy readers* lol ~Arwen~: Glad you like my writing; here is the next chapter right now. ~Agador-of-the-woods~: Thanks for the continuing reviews! Faramir should be allright.......maybe......possibly...... ~AzNnEgGrOePnOi~: Glad you still like the story; I am trying to keep up on the quality of it. Here's the next part... ~Spike's Lil Black Vamp~: *wields flaming torch, Strider style* No! No stalkers! Lol, j/k Thanks for the reviews, especially the comments about my writing. They are muchly appreciated! ~Maria~: Here's the next chapter, for your reading pleasure :) ~Lady Berenice~: Here's more to read :) Thanks for the review! Yeah, the cliffhanger is a bit much... ~Elessar~: Ahhhh! More crazy people. hehe j/k Don't worry, there is more to read... ~Susan~: And now, the story is updated again :) ~Ing~: It wasn't my fault, I swear! Sauron made me cut the story off.... Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope this chapter isn't quite so bad of a cliffhanger! ~eowyn~: Yep, Boromir is very cool (especially when he is younger)! Here's the next chapter... ~Lirenel~: Yes, I have kept writing :) As for Boromir and Faramir, well, you have to read below... ~the kid mdd~: Hehe, I like the men too, but I fancy Aragorn, then Boromir as my fav characters!  
  
!!!! Author's note: Beregond and Denethor do not know each other, excluding the fact that Beregond obviously knows that he is the Steward, and therefore the father of Boromir and Faramir.......!!!  
  
And so, the story continues below...  
  
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Beregond was stunned by the scene unfolding below him. Only seconds before, he had seen Boromir carrying Faramir towards the rapidly closing gate. At first, Beregond had not believed the sight, for surely his friends had not managed to trap themselves in such a situation. When he realized that his eyes were not deceiving him, he had snatched the nearest rope, and bolted towards a spot on the wall directly above the two trapped figures.  
  
The intention had been to rescue both from the deadly peril they faced. But now Beregond stood atop the wall, holding only Faramir, while the Haradrim bore down upon the elder brother.  
  
"Boromir!" Beregond found himself yelling. "Get out of the way!"  
  
Beregond had no way of knowing whether Boromir had heard. The last the former saw of the other was a terrified figure, pressed with his back to the wall, faced by a horde of enemies. Within seconds, Boromir disappeared from sight.  
  
Beregond felt a sick feeling spread throughout his body. His mind hoped beyond hope that his friend might still be alive, might somehow have escaped the blows of the Haradrim injured, but not dead. However, in the very depths of his dark thoughts, Beregond knew he was asking for the impossible. No one could single-handedly face the swarm of men below and survive. He watched for a few seconds more, straining for a glimpse of Boromir, as the enemy filled the space below, and continued their attack upon the city.  
  
Suddenly, Beregond snapped back to his senses. Dead indeed, Boromir might be, but no matter what had happened below, Beregond could not allow himself to be consumed by dispair. He realized that he still had a responsibility to the living, and turned his attention towards Faramir, whom he was still holding.  
  
The younger brother seemed to be on the very brink of death. It occurred to Beregond that Faramir felt strangely cold, and he noticed part of an arrow embedded into his skin.  
  
Pushing aside thoughts of his friend, Beregond forced himself to turn away from the wall. He spoke outloud, with words that seemed aimed at no one in particular. "How did you two get into this mess?" he mused. "Aiii, it seems like the whole city is on the brink of destruction!"  
  
With that, he began making his way down, off of the wall. He slipped a few times, attempting to fight his way through the mass of soldiers, but as the minutes passed, he became more aware of the desperation of Faramir's situation, he moved more assuredly. Eventually, Beregond pushed his way through a few more people, and was able to walk more freely along the outside of the crowd.  
  
Like Boromir before him, he was forced to walk past the dead and the dying who had plummeted from the wall, though there were not quite so many here. The scene seemed to push thoughts of Boromir, likely to be in a similar situation, to the front of Beregond's mind. He had to rapidly shake his head, in an attempt to banish them; then began mumbling to himself again.  
  
"Don't think about it.....just keep walking.....there must be a healer around here somewhere...." His eyes darted back and forth, partly in an effort to locate a healer, and partly to distract himself from the scene.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity (though in reality, it was all of a few moments), Beregond spotted a small, makeshift sign on a door, indicating that a healer was present. He ran over, as quickly as he could considering the weight he was carrying, and pushed open the door with his shoulder.  
  
Not even the horrors of the battle raging outside could prepare Beregond for the sights within the crowded, temporary quarters of the healer. Though the interior was filled with the sick, the injured and the dying, the boy found himself frozen in place by a sight that, to him, seemed far more terrifying.  
  
The Steward himself was standing in the small room. Prior to Beregond's entry, he had been engaged in a heated discussion with one of his advisors. Now, both men were facing the door, and Denethor's steely eyes locked with those of the boy.  
  
The Steward swiftly approached. "What has happened?" he demanded, recognizing immediately his son in the arms of Beregond. "I was led to believe that Faramir was perfectly safe, having not been seen anywhere within the vicinity of the battle!"  
  
Beregond could not even begin to answer the question. His mouth felt as though it was filled to the brim with sawdust.  
  
At the moment, however, no response was necessary. Denethor realized that his younger son was in graver condition than he had first guessed, and turned his attention to summoning a healer. One appeared shortly. Making a quick, almost instant inspection of Faramir, the healer took the boy from Beregond, and carried him into an adjacent room. Denethor followed.  
  
Beregond too, felt the urge to rejoin the men, for he wondered if there was any hope left for Faramir, but he did not wish to face any more of the Steward's questions. In any other situation, Beregond realized he was no more than another face in the crowd to the Steward; however, this was different, and the boy had no desire to be under the scrutiny of Denethor any more than necessary. Beregond had to satisfy himself with listening to the muffled conversation of the two men through the doorway of the other room.  
  
He caught a few of the words from the healer. "The arrow wound seems to be poisoned..... not an uncommon practice of the Haradrim....not strong poison....but he's been exposed to it for a while.....why so long to get here?"  
  
Denethor's reply was more difficult to discern, for the Steward's voice was dangerously low, in an effort to hide the various frustrations at the moment. ".....tower.....not even near battle.....save him?"  
  
Beregond guessed that the Steward's final words had been an inquiry to whether or not his younger son could be saved. The eavesdropping boy was unable to hear the reply, for the healer's voice grew very low, but he knew immediately that Denethor did not like the other's answer.  
  
"You must!!!" The Steward seemed to have lost control of his temper, generally a rare occurrence, and his yells caused Beregond to jump. "He is young, he is strong (though not so much as his brother), and will live if cared for! You will save him!"  
  
This last command seemed to unnerve the healer, who could be heard trying to respond. However, Denethor burst through the doorway, back into the room where Beregond was listening. The latter attempted to slip outside unnoticed, but the Steward's shout of "Halt!" stopped him in his tracks. Beregond turned unwillingly to face the other, though he could not bring himself to look into the Steward's eyes.  
  
Denethor spoke to him almost immediately, the former failing miserably to keep his frustrations out of his voice. "I must thank you for bringing Faramir in here, though his future looks very grim. At least now he has a chance."  
  
Beregond thought he heard gratitude in the Steward's words, though he knew not how to reply. What appropriate response could one possibly make to the father of a dying son?  
  
The Steward had not been expecting any reply however, and simply continued. "I must ask you, since you have obviously been exposed to at least a part of the fighting; do you know my other son, Boromir?"  
  
The look of recognition in Beregond's face was unmistakable, and, upon noticing it, Denethor continued speaking. "Ahh, you are familiar with him then? Have you seen him at all during the battle, for he has not sent any word to me at all since this battle began."  
  
If the Steward's other questions had been beestings, pricking Beregond's courage bit by bit until he could no longer speak, this last inquiry could only be likened to having a massive swarm of bees intent on attacking their victim. Beregond could no longer hear the sounds of battle outside, though they had been easily audible from the room. He could no longer think of the Haradrim, or even of Faramir. He could only recall the fall of Boromir, vividly, as though he had witnessed it only seconds before.  
  
Beregond tried to conceal the pain in his mind, and indeed managed to keep a straight face. He choked out a few words, knowing that Denethor would not accept silence as an answer. "Haven't....seen....him.....recently," he finally stammered, staring intently at the ground.  
  
Not for nothing was the Steward renowned for his intuitive abilities, for he was not fooled for an instant by Beregond. Instead, he grabbed the boy, forcing him to meet his gaze.  
  
"Something has happened to Boromir; I can see it in your eyes," Denethor stated, his suspicions confirmed by the way the other was flinching. "Now, you will tell me where my other son is!"  
  
********  
  
Though he would not have admitted it to his friends (were they present), Boromir was frozen in place with terror. He saw the glinting eyes of the Haradrim as they hurled themselves forward, brandishing every weapon imaginable. A thousand thoughts seemed to run through his mind simultaneously, most of them concerning the possible escape he had been offered.  
  
"I could be up on the wall right now, boasting a little to Beregond about my narrow escape. Faramir might already be dead anyway."  
  
At the same instant, he knew he had could never have left his brother alone, handing him a certain death sentence at the hands of the invaders. Boromir hoped Faramir was safe.  
  
Suddenly, there was no more time for thoughts. The blunt side of a particularly huge ax connected with Boromir's skull, causing him to be thrown against the wall. There would be no mercy from the Haradrim.  
  
However, the fates seemed to have some other plans for the son of the Steward. Perhaps the man who had delivered the swing believed it to be a death blow. Indeed, it was certainly strong enough to knock Boromir completely senseless, and the Haradrim, seeing no movement from his limp body, had every reason to believe him dead. They saw no further use for the boy, soon becoming more concerned with the flaming arrows and oil that had begun to rain from the Gondorian bows. Their newest victim was ignored, at least temporarily.  
  
But apparently, it was not yet time for death and Boromir to become aquatinted. Slowly, he awoke from his unconscious nightmare into a painful reality. His head felt as though it had been cracked into a dozen smaller pieces, blood was beginning to run down his face, and his thoughts consisted of a blurred mess of confusion. Yet, he lived.  
  
As the battle continued to grow, until finally emerging into a full fledged assault on the second gate, Boromir became more aware of his surroundings. Carefully, he opened one eye.  
  
His vision was strangely blurry, and he had no idea why he was sprawled upon the cold ground, with evil-looking men nearby, attacking a wall. He couldn't figure out why his head seemed to be on fire. Only two things registered vaguely in his mind: he was in serious pain, and in a very bad situation.  
  
Nothing could be done about the pain. Boromir didn't dare move, even to rub his aching skull (and find the source of the blood). He wasn't thinking about the possibility that movement might alert the enemy to his situation, but he somehow knew that he should stay still.  
  
The other problem might be possible to solve, though thinking clearly was difficult. Boromir had no idea where he was, or how to escape his current situation. He tried to sift through the haze of thoughts for an answer.  
  
In the end, luck proved again to be on his side. As another volley of flaming arrows fell from above, one, poorly aimed, happened to strike the ground no more than a foot from the injured boy. It emitted a hollow "clink" noise.  
  
Somehow, the sound cleared a small part of Boromir's brain. He recalled that he must be somewhere in the city, and the noise probably came from one of the many drains near the walls. Boromir also knew that the grates on them were sometimes loose, and, although a grown man would not fit through such a small hole, he might still manage to squeeze through.  
  
He closed his one open eye, trying to focus on rolling towards the grate. Boromir didn't think about the possibility that the grate might be tight, or too small to fit through; he couldn't. He moved slowly towards the grate.  
  
Immediately, Boromir cried out in pain, alerting a few of the Haradrim to his movement. They lunged at him, with weapons outstretched. The boy was three inches from the grate....then two......then one.  
  
As the Haradrim weapons fell, Boromir slid into the loose grate, causing it to fall. One spear managed to connect with his arm, but the rest struck the ground harmlessly as the boy slipped through the small hole under the wall. 


	23. Some Things Never Change

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I know it took forever to get this chapter up, but now, it is finally completed.  
  
Remember, words enclosed with dashes indicate that a character is thinking/dreaming. Boromir's dream might seem somewhat familiar, but it is simply a glimpse into the future (in FOTR). It doesn't affect the plot in any important way...  
  
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Beregond dearly wished the hard stone walls of the room could melt away, allowing him to disappear from the cold eyes that seemed to bore through his head. It would be so much easier, running away from this scene, then facing the truth in the back of his mind. Yet escape was impossible, he realized, noting the iron grip upon his shoulder. Beregond winced momentarily, then began speaking in a shaking voice.  
  
"Boromir......w-w-was down......near the g-g-g-gate," he stammered, "carrying Faramir. He did not appear injured....at that time......"  
  
Denethor frowned. He realized that Beregond was attempting to speak slowly, using his words to stumble around the truth. The Steward wanted answers, now. "Where is Boromir?" he asked, a touch of anger ebbing into his tone of voice.  
  
The boy paled. "The gate......closed.......I was there.....couldn't pull them both up the wall.....Boromir told me to take Faramir.....Haradrim....he was attacked." A rush of words fell from Beregond's mouth, fragmented pieces of a dark puzzle. It seemed impossibly unclear, even to Beregond himself, but somehow Denethor deciepered the horrible truth behind them.  
  
"So Boromir....he is dead?" the Steward asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Killed by the Haradrim?"  
  
Beregond began to nod, numbly; then stopped short at the expression on Denethor's face. "I saw him fall.....but perhaps........." He let his last words hang in the air, unable to finish them, for in his heart he could not find any real hope for Boromir. His gaze traveled to his feet, and remained there.  
  
Denethor sighed deeply, seeming to age twenty years in the few moments that had passed. He realeased Beregond, and turned away, towards the healer that was caring for his last remaing son.  
  
The sounds of the battle outside were audible, a constant reinforcer of the dispair that seemed to hang upon the White City.  
  
********  
  
Boromir lay upon the other side of the wall, the safe side. Around him, men were shouting as they aimed their flaming arrows at the invaders below. He tried to move, but somehow the message did not reach his numb arms and legs. Even the pain Boromir had felt only seconds before seemed to be fading.....  
  
----- When Boromir came to his senses again, he found himself in the midst of a dimly lit forest. He heard the sound of a swift moving stream or river somewhere in the distance, yet he was unable to place it. Minas Tirith, and all the noise of battle seemed to have disappeared.  
  
"Where am I?" Boromir wondered in his mind. "What has happened to the city, to my injuries, to Father? Where is Faramir?"  
  
He glanced around, bewildered. He had no memory of ever visiting such as place, yet it seemed familiar, somehow. Perhaps he was dreaming....  
  
Suddenly, a strange sense of urgency seemed to overtake Boromir. He unsheathed a strange sword at his side, and broke into a run. A new thought made its way to the top of his muddled thoughts - someone was in danger, and he had to aid them.  
  
But who could possibly be in danger here? He had already helped Faramir, and surely Beregond had brought his younger brother to safety. Who was there to rescue in this strangely familiar forest that would cause him to run so quickly, so desparately to their aid....... -------------  
  
Boromir opened his eyes, awakening from his unsettling forest dream. He gasped when he attempted to move, and came to the painful realization that he back in the midst of the battle. Mere feet from where he lay, the boots of the attacking Haradrim were visible through the small hole in the wall, once covered by the grate. For a moment, Boromir paniked, expecting the see the evil attackers sliding through the opening that had been created; then common sense told him that their heavy weapons and armor would make it impossible to fit. It had indeed been a close fit for the boy himself.  
  
However, as he struggled to continue thinking, he felt a throbbing sensation spread across his head. Ah, the blow from the Haradrim, he thought to himself. In his relief at his sudden escape, he had forgotten the near fatal blow he had been dealt. Now, the darkness was threatening to reclaim his thoughts. Boromir struggled to keep his senses, to focus on the shouts from the soldiers nearby, but he found himself fighting a losing battle. Slowly, he slipped back into a world of dreams...  
  
********  
  
Back in the house of the healers, Beregond was sitting on the floor, staring numbly at his feet, and refusing to answer any more questions aimed at him. The Steward had said nothing more, but a few others had been present, trying to coax information from the striken boy. However, all their words had no effect upon him, for he was lost deep within his own thoughts.  
  
During this time, a faint glimmer of hope seemed to finally be making an appearance over the city. Though the attack from Harad had been brutal, killing hundreds of men, the attackers seemed to finally be giving up. In their desparation, the men from Gondor were doing anything possible to save the city, and the firceness they displayed was begining to wear down the enemy. There had even been a mention of retreat in the message a soldier delivered to Denethor.  
  
Even for Faramir, death no longer seemed a fact. As the healer had stated before, the poison used on the Haradrim arrow was not extrememly potent, and though he had been exposed to it for a long time, he was responding to treatment. Perhaps the healer, fearing the wrath of Denethor, had found some way of curing the boy; or perhaps the Steward was right when he said Faramir was strong.  
  
However, even the hopeful news of Faramir, coulped with a possible retreat of the Haradrim, could not bring happiness to Denethor. He seemed wrapped up in and overwelmed by his own thoughts. Boromir, his beloved eldest son, was dead. He would never grow up to be a great soldier, admired by the people, nor would he take the scepter of the Steward in the future years.  
  
********  
  
Boromir awoke suddenly to a strange feeling. His vision and thoughts were hazy, yet he could distinctly feel someone tapping him on the shoulder. The boy attempted to speak, but no words emerged from his mouth.  
  
"Awake now, are you?" asked a voice. "So many among us are dead, but we have just recieved word that the Haradrim are leaving. It appears impossible for them to break through the second wall, so they have given up...for now." The last words were spoken in a half whisper. "My instinct tells me they will return someday."  
  
Though his head still ached, Boromir understood most of the words spoken to him. Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, he noted that the man's voice sounded slightly unfamilar, as though he had not grown up in Gondor. He did not have the remaining strenght to think much more, however. He gasped in pain as he felt himself lifted off the cold ground, his head feeling as though it might split in two.  
  
Apparently, the man realized immediately the state of Boromir. He murmured something in a musical language unfamiliar to the boy, and took some unusual looking leaves out of a pouch. Prying open Boromir's mouth, he forced the boy to eat the leaves, which, despite their bitter taste, seemed to ease some of the pain he felt. His head became a little clearer.  
  
Then, Boromir felt himself being carried, though he did not know the destination, and found that he did not have much strength to care.  
  
********  
  
The pained thoughts of the Steward were interrupted suddenly by a loud crashing noise. A shadowed figure burst into the room, apparently after kicking the door open. Denethor found such an extrance immensely irritating, considering the state of the people in the room, yet all angry thoughts left his head when he spotted a second figure, being carried by the first.  
  
"Boromir!"  
  
His son was not yet dead after all. Denethor noted that his injuries were moderate, especially one particulary nasty swelling on his forehead, but still, he breathed. In fact, the strange leaves given to Boromir had begun to have a powerful effect on him. He still felt pain throughout his body, but he was slowly regaining some of his lost strength.  
  
The healer who had been attending to Faramir rushed over, and took the boy from the mysterious man. Boromir was placed in a bed, next to that of his brother, and, while Denethor looked on, he was examined.  
  
A stunned look appeared on the face of the healer. "He should have been dead," he finally stated. "These wounds are grave, yet still he lives on. It appears to me that your son has recieved some form of treatment already, likely an herb with powerful healing properties, though I know of none like this."  
  
Denethor and the healer both turned towards the door at the same time, but the man had vanished as quickly as he had come. No trace of him remained. For a second, both were silent, then Denethor spoke, "Never mind him; what of Boromir?" he asked, a hint of impatient creeping into his voice.  
  
"He will live," answered the healer, "and I believe the same is true for his brother. Whatever was used upon Boromir has saved his life. As for Faramir, he is slowly improving, though it will take time for both to be fully healed."  
  
It mattered not to the Steward how long the healing process took, so long as the end result was the complete recovery of his sons. For the first time since the battle with the Haradrim had begun, his face did not have the look of a man who has just lost everything. Instead, a new emotion showed through in his eyes, one that had rarely been present in all his years of ruling Gondor. Hope.  
  
********  
  
The city itself was slowly rebuilt. Shattered by the Haradrim, the outermost gate had to be replaced, and repairs were done where the walls had been cracked. The dead were mourned and buried by the people, and black banners were hung all over the streets to honor their memory. Eventually, things began returning to normal for Minas Tirith, although the Haradrim still remained on the minds of many.  
  
Indeed, as the healer predicted, both Boromir and Faramir recovered fully from their physical injuries. It took even longer for Faramir to finally accept the death of Mergil, for he continued reliving the scene in his nightmares many times in the future, and it plagued his thoughts during the day. Finally, the reassurance of Boromir convinced him to move on, bringing the brothers even closer together than before.  
  
Around three monthes after the attack, Boromir and Faramir could be found standing atop the White Tower, gazing across the land that was Gondor. The sun was just setting over the distant mountains to the west, and both boys were sillouetted against the light. "It's a great view, isn't it?" said Boromir. "No matter what happens, we'll always be able to come up here, and look out across the land. Just like the sun, it will be here forever."  
  
"Forever?" replied Faramir. "Things change. It won't be here forever, but it will last awhile, I guess."  
  
"It will be here forever," Boromir insisted, momentarily mimicing his father's tone of voice. "I say it shall never change."  
  
"All things have to change. It's just the way it is."  
  
"Disagreeing with me, little brother? Very well then, take out your sword, and we'll settle this like soldiers. Come on now!"  
  
Faramir laughed when the other boy drew his sword and pretended to be ready for battle. "I still say the land will change over time," he replied, grabbing his own sword, "but I take back what I said. You're right."  
  
Boromir was surprised by this response. "Why's that?"  
  
Faramir pretended to lunge at Boromir with his sword. "Some things never change!" he said, grinning.  
  
****El Fin**** 


End file.
